


For Pete's Sake!

by KitCat992



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Civil War Fix-It, Concussions, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Head Injury, Hurt Peter, Hurt/Comfort, If Tony is Irondad then Pepper is Ironmom, Irondad, Medical Jargon, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Protective Tony Stark, Seizures, Sensory Overload, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Vomiting, Whump, and poor May just wants her nephew to live past high-school, it's really only in the narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-02-10 06:30:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18654850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitCat992/pseuds/KitCat992
Summary: Maybe he’d feel better if he closed his eyes, just for a second. It was too dark to see anything clearly anyway, and he’d be able to concentrate better without seeing how fast the ground was coming up to meet him.A rush of wind sent goosebumps across his skin before two strong hands gripped his shoulders tightly, keeping him upright and from nose-diving straight into the alleyway cement.Peter snapped his eyes open, blinking a couple times to clear his vision. Everything was blurry. Was that…?“...ice cream man!?”





	1. Penny For Your Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> Hi.
> 
> We don't talk about Avengers: Endgame anywhere in this story or in the comment threads. Thank you.
> 
> This is literally just a load of whump and hurt/comfort and fluff to keep me afloat for the time being. I really needed to write something light-weighted and this is what I ended up with. It takes place somewhere Spider-man: Homecoming and address one of my many Fix It! Civil War head canons. 
> 
> Enjoy.

 

When Peter was seven, he collected pennies.

Not quarters, not dimes, not even nickles. He had been insistent that his collection be for pennies only. And despite Uncle Ben’s various attempts at tainting his beautiful collection, not a single silver coin could be found in his dingy mason jar, crudely labeled _‘Peter Parker’s Pennies’_ with half-smudged, half-dried out Crayola marker.

It was his goal to save up enough pennies to buy himself and Ned LED Star Wars Lightsabers from Toys R Us. Was it odd? Absolutely. But there was something prideful about spending so much time saving up every little penny he came across for such a large purchase. A reminder that no matter how bleak life got, he could make the impossible happen.

He spent the entire summer of 2008 working on his collection, picking up pennies he found on the street and subsequently causing Aunt May to carry hand sanitizer with her everywhere they went. His hands became cracked and dry from the frequent use of Purell, but his jar a little more full. And just like that, a lonely, sad orphaned kid mourning the loss of his parents found an odd sense of control in his life, something to look forward to each day. Even if it was only collecting a penny.

“...ow.”

Ultimately though, he caved, spending the entire $2.47 he had saved up on Iron Man ice cream bars. What could he say, the ice cream truck driver really knew how to make a sale. Ned tried telling him it was because of the _‘Keep calm and Iron on’_ t-shirt he was wearing, but who really knows.

He remembered dumping that entire mason jar of pennies out and being rewarded with a frightening looking Iron Man treat that tasted much better than it looked. That didn’t take a whole lot, what with the summer heat having melted half of the red coloring into the yellow and morphing what might have been the Iron Man faceplate into a ghastly green.

Walking back to his neighborhood of Forest Hills in Queens, New York, he licked his fingers clean of the creamy residue left behind from the ice cream. It had an odd aftertaste of cherry with a surprising kick of metal. Copper. The counting of his change to the truck driver created a distinct, pungent taste that invaded his tongue, and he promptly wiped his hands clean on his pants, grimacing at the bitterness left behind.

“...wha... _ugh..._ ”

His mouth tasted like pennies.

Peter ran his tongue across his bottom lip, momentarily cringing when it brushed against the open gash near the corner of his mouth. It stung. He didn’t know why it stung. He didn’t know…

“..wha…?”

He didn’t know what happened.

With shaking hands, he laid an open palm against the ground, bracining himself. It was pressed flush against the wet cement, a puddle of rain dampening the fabric of his suit. His hand. That _was_ his hand, right? It didn’t _feel_ like his hand. Did he even have hands? Wait, of course he had hands. How else would he do…

...hand...stuff.

Peter groaned. That made no sense.

This was important. Why was his head spinning? And why did his mouth taste like pennies? He needed to figure out what happened, and that meant getting to the bottom of this hands situation.

Did he, or did he not have hands?

With a breath deeper than he should have known was necessary — his entire body lifting upwards from such a dramatic inhale — Peter slapped his open palm against the ground for affirmation. It splashed a puddle of street water onto his face, and – _ouch!_ – his lip stung even more now.

Okay, at least he was getting somewhere. He had a mouth, he had lips. Right, that meant…

It meant…

Peter blinked. Again and again, eyelashes fluttering together. Suddenly, he found himself overly aware of how many times he was blinking. What was he saying? Something about blinking. How long was he supposed to go between blinks? Should he be blinking less? More? Maybe if he blinked more, his lip would hurt less. That made sense.

Right?

The onset of rapid blinking suddenly had him feeling incredibly, insanely nauseous. Like, the entire world just became one broken tilt-a-whirl sort of nauseous. His stomach cramped into a tight ball and a flood of saliva moistened his mouth and —

“Ohhhh...” Peter moaned, closing his eyes tightly. “I’mgunnabesick.”

With one fluid motion, he went to cover his mouth, hoping to keep his insides _inside_ of him where they belonged. Unfortunately, by either instinct of lack of coherent thinking, he went to use the hand that had been propping him up from his unbeknownst prone position on the ground.

“Shi—!”

_SMACK!_

His body hit the ground with a _thud,_ his chest cracking at impact and stealing his breath away.

Of course, not before he managed to projectile vomit first. Like a boss.

A spew of sickness flew out from his mouth, a gurgle that ended with a wet, spluttered gasp the moment his chin bounced off the cold and damp ground. Each retch strained his muscles, bile trickling into the crevices of his neck while he heaved in that position, laying on his belly with his chin quivering against the cement.

It wasn’t until he was positively sure that his stomach had finished twisting into a pretzel that he dared to move, inch by inch, not sure at this point if he was wet from rainwater or vomit or both.

Even in the deep corner of his non-working subconscious, he knew he wouldn’t want to know the answer.

Peter groaned, barely managing to flip over onto his back. He looked at the sky above, squinting, red-rimmed eyes unfocused. A clothesline flapped delicately with the breeze, what seemed to be pants, shirts and towels flapping and fluttering in the air.

He could really use a towel to clean himself up right about now. Maybe if he just crawled up the wall...no, that wasn’t happening. He only recently determined that he had _hands,_ he wasn’t ready to tread the question of if he had legs or not. Or feet. God, did he even have feet?

Maybe if he just _willed_ a towel to fall down. That made sense, right? He was a superhero, surely he had the power to control objects.

“I’m...Spider-man,” Peter slurred, a goofy smile in place. He went so far as to even chuckle.

That stopped almost immediately when his head screamed a tundra of red pain, stealing even his broken noises of distress from being vocalized. _God_ , that hurt!

He closed his eyes and furrowed his brows, waiting for the little lightning bolts that zapped his delicate brain matter into crispy fried bits to stop. Or at the very most ease up. Even his eyebrows hurt, if that were even possible.

The pounding was _everywhere_ — front, back, side to side — no space was safe in his precious skull. Whatever question he had been asking became a distant concern. All he could concentrate on was the pain rooted deep in his head.

"Ughh..."

At least his mouth didn’t taste like pennies anymore. It actually tasted a little bit like his school’s cafeteria’s pizza, the kind served on Wednesdays, not the good kind served on Fridays. A familiar burnt crust and sweet pasta sauce filled his mouth, reminding him of the last thing he ate.

The thought made his throat gurgle again, his muscles convulsing with rising bile. With clumsy, uncoordinated hands, he fumbled to roll back on his side in time to gag what little was left in his stomach. Nothing came up, his back lurching with empty dry heaves.

“ **Peter?”**

A voice boomed into his ears, making him cry out a strangled yelp. Loud, _very loud!_

“ **Peter, this is my fifth attempt at gaining a response from you. I am programmed to continue until otherwise directed. Are you there?”**

The incredibly loud voice sounded concerned. And robotic. Concerned robot? Wait, that was —

“Karen?” Peter croaked, flimsily wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Where ‘ave yo’ve been?”

He found himself staring at his hand for the longest time, entranced that his skin was red with black weaved throughout. That couldn’t be good. What happened to him that turned his skin red with black spiderwebs so neatly laced across?

Was he actually turning into Spider-man?

No, wait, he _was_ Spider-man.

Right?

“ **I have been here all along,”** way-too-loud Karen said. He hissed out in pain. **“You have not been responding to my voice.”**

Peter clapped his hands over his ears, desperate to quiet the noises that all seemed way, _way_ too loud. It had his ears ringing in a way that made his eardrums shake. Wait, could his eardrums actually shake? Was he physically capable of that?

“..’at’s...not ‘rue. I’ve...been here. You...not,” his words slurred into each other, melting syllables barely escaping his split and bleeding lips. His elbows shook with the tremendous effort it took to get into a kneeling position and he was almost positive he’d tilt over from the amount of swaying.

“ **I have indeed been here. You partially removed your mask shortly before your fall, but my communications are still intact. You have been experiencing signs of extreme disorientation and as such, I have alerted the proper channels of your condition.”**

Peter shook his head just a smidgen, immediately regretting it with a heavy groan. “...liar.. You...you not here. I’m...I here. I’m...real. Hands. Real.”

God, his head hurt. It throbbed and ached and he felt lightheaded and dizzy. Really, really dizzy.

“ **Stay where you are, Peter,”** loud-lady-voice said, her tone somehow softening with concern. **“Help is on the way.”**

Maybe he’d feel better if he closed his eyes, just for a second. It was too dark to see anything clearly anyway, and he’d be able to concentrate better without seeing how fast the ground was coming up to meet him.

A rush of wind sent goosebumps across his skin before two strong hands gripped his shoulders tightly, keeping him upright and from nose-diving straight into the alleyway cement.

Peter snapped his eyes open, blinking a couple times to clear his vision. Everything was blurry. Was that…?

“...ice cream man!?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The waiter hadn’t even brought their drinks yet when Tony got the call.

“ **Boss?”** FRIDAY’s voice came through his high-tech glasses. **“Incoming urgent notification from Karen.”**

The AI brought up a display of different screens only he could see, all holographic, all containing different information. And though there was an array of fluctuating vitals and diagrams flooding his line of sight, his present company sitting directly across from him remained clear as day.

Pepper’s face was a soft mix of frustration and concern.

“Karen? Isn’t that Peter’s —”

“Yeah,” Tony answered, the words clipped with tension. His index finger tapped twice on the side of his glasses, just as Pepper waved for the waiter to come back later. “Talk to me, FRI.”

It took less than twenty seconds to absorb the details that were sent his way, and less than that for Pepper to lay her hand on top of his. His face must have said it all, if not his pulse beating erratically beneath the skin of his wrist.

“Tony,” she softly cajoled. “Go.”

He looked down at the table. They hadn’t even gotten their drinks yet.

Tony was a breath away from telling her that he could send a suit out for the kid, that he didn’t have to leave in such a rush. It was rare these days that they found time for their dates, he knew just how much she treasured them. They both had been so busy lately, her with Stark Industries, him rebuilding the Avengers after they finally got the Accords repealed.

But before the words could even leave his lips, she squeezed her grip in a way that reminded him just how well she truly knew him.

A suit was waiting for him by the time he walked out of the restaurant.

‘ _Loss of consciousness, high blood pressure, not responding,’_ — these were all things Tony couldn’t shake as he flew into the city, following the path FRIDAY had illuminated for him via the tracker in Peter’s suit. It took less than twenty minutes to get there, no doubt helpful that FRIDAY put the boost on his repulsor beams halfway into the ride. That only managed to tighten the ball of concern in his gut — he hadn’t asked her to do that.

As it turned out, an alleyway was actually one of the least worrisome places Tony expected to find Peter. The longer he got to know the kid, the more he became grateful for the small things — like the kid superhero not being passed out in the middle of Central Park, for starters.

He came flying down into the dingy little alleyway with precise speed, his jets blowing wind through a clothesline of damp towels and scattering some along the dirty pavement. Some landed near where Peter — eh, Spider-man, knelt on the ground.

Tony’s boots touched down with a clank right as Peter began to tilt forward, toppling over like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

“Jesus!” He rushed to grab Peter’s shoulders, squeezing them dangerously tight to keep him upright. His helmet retracted and his eyes bored into the sight in front of him, failing stupendously at keeping his panic at bay. “Easy there, Underoo’s. Steady now.”

With his Spider-man mask still covering the upper half of his face, Tony watched the two white lenses blink slower than what he knew was normal. From his point of view, they almost looked broken, heavy and sluggish. He made a mental note to check into the shutter feature after all this was said and done.

Peter suddenly gasped, those same lenses widening until they were nothing but white.

“...ice cream man!?”

Resisting the urge to smirk, Tony instead cocked his head to the side, getting a better look at the picture in front of him. Both Peter _and_ Spider-man had certainly seen better days.

"Shit, kid. You really did a number on yourself,” he said, hands still gripping Peter’s shoulders tightly. It seemed like even a breeze would send the kid toppling over.

“You were...” Peter swayed slightly to the side, only kept upright by Tony’s redirection. “...a Popsicle.”

Tony grimaced, Peter’s slur of words hitting directly in his face. The rank breath of post-vomit was strong and pungent. Doing a quick take at his surroundings, he kept one hand stern on Peter’s shoulder while his other reached for a discarded towel nearby, that and a few other articles of clothing having dropped down from the clothesline high above.

“Yeah, I’m sure I was in another life,” Tony muttered, careful as he cleaned the sickness off Peter’s face. The kid didn’t seem to even notice, at least not until he brushed against his lower lip. Even then, there was barely a wince. “Probably a great life, too. Less headache than this.”

The lack of any struggle or fight when Tony scrubbed the towel along Peter’s mouth was slightly concerning. Usually one full of either apologizes or banter, or god forbid both, it didn’t go unnoticed how quiet he was. There should have been at least three “ _I’m sorry, Mr. Stark”’s_ by now.

“What are we looking at here, FRI?” he asked, eyes never leaving Peter.

“ **Hard to determine without a proper scan. I would advise removing his mask to ensure there is not an open head wound before going any further.”**

Tony tossed the soiled rag aside with a heavy sigh. “Get me a quick scan, is he safe to move?”

There was a beat before she confirmed, **“Preliminary scan shows no sign of any spinal injuries. I would just be careful.”**

He rolled his eyes — as if he was anything but careful — and locked his hands underneath Peter’s armpits, sliding him against the closest wall on their right-hand side.

A flutter of panic had his heart skipping beats when the kid did little to nothing to help. It was like moving a rag doll, a very muscular and heavy teenage rag doll.

“C’mon, kid,” Tony grunted, adjusting Peter’s limbs as he rested his body against the brick wall. He’d have flopped straight onto his side if it weren’t for the garbage bin next to him, becoming his makeshift support beam. Tony cringed, trying not to think about the germs.

“You w’re...” Peter sounded like someone who had just awoken from a deep sleep, groggy as he mumbled, “...ch’rry.”

For the most part, Tony felt he was doing an immaculate job at staying calm, even as Peter muttered incomprehensible nonsense. He’d be disappointed in himself if he reacted any less; a little over half a year with the spider-kid had given him plenty of time to adjust to the borderline heart attacks these type of situations brought forth.

But even _he_ had to admit that this was starting to look bad.

Peter groaned, his face scrunching up in obvious pain.

Real bad.

He furrowed his brows, craning his neck to look down the street. “FRIDAY, how many non-intoxicated people are currently in the proximity of this alleyway?”

It may have been nighttime, but the streetlights were still on and the city was still lit up with life.

As if to prove himself right, FRIDAY quickly answered, **“Half a dozen, boss.”**

Rising from his knees, Tony’s Iron Man armor was quick to open up around him. He stepped out, dressed in his Armani suit, black blazer and all.

“Let’s not chance it,” he said, tapping against his wristwatch and programming the sentient armor ahead. “Engage black-out protocol.”

The red and yellow suit took a total of three steps forward before the arc reactor in the middle of the chest plate flickered to life. It created a holographic version of the alleyway for bystanders to see, sans concussed Spider-man and Tony Stark. The less attention drawn to them, the better.

Tony quickly returned to said concussed superhero, lips pursed with mild aggravation that did a fantastic job at hiding his bubbling panic. The kid hadn’t flinched an inch, not until he gripped the edges of the mask covering his upper face.

Peter flailed against him, eyes wide and mouth gasping in shock.

“Hey hey hey hey!” Tony shouted, gripping his shoulders and forcing him back against the wall. “It’s _me,_ Underoos. It’s me. Calm down.”

Tony didn’t wait for a response that he knew he wouldn’t have received anyway. He yanked the mask straight off, Peter’s brown locks matted against his forehead and sticky with sweat.

“ _Shit,_ ” Tony cursed. When Peter tried to worm away, he gripped the underneath of his chin tightly, steering his neck back towards him. “Hey, hey, look at me. Eyes on me, Parker.”

Peter may have been looking directly at him, but he certainly didn’t recognize him. In fact, it was as if he saw straight through him.

Tony momentarily lost his breath — _‘Not good.’_

The big punch to his gut remained to be the one blown pupil, all black, wide as a saucer. There was not even a hint of the slightest brown to those Bambi irises that normally colored his eye.

His hands reached into his blazer pocket and whipped out his glasses, ignoring how his fingers trembled while he slid the wire-framed device back onto his face. _‘Keep it together. The kid’s bumped his head before, don’t go freaking out on him. Keep your cool.’_

He didn’t need to tell his AI to do a medical scan — she was already on it, god bless her artificial heart. A blue light began to rove along Peter from head to toe, lasering in directly around his head. It lingered there longer than Tony felt comfortable.

“What are we looking at?” he demanded, his words curt and clipped.

The blue light blinked away, replaced almost immediately with a list of vital signs and other information Tony quickly soaked in.

“ **Multiple injuries, including a fractured collarbone and split lip, as well as significant bruising to his right elbow,”** FRIDAY’s Irish accent rang through.

Tony shook his head, frowning. “And the Dazed and Confused act? Concussion, right?”

“ **It’s hard to say without a more detailed scan,”** FRIDAY’s voice brought with it a new holographic image, this one detailing Peter’s skull. **“However, my systems are steering me in the direction of possible acute closed head injury.”**

Tony balked.

“What!?” he snapped, earning a distressed groan from Peter. He lowered his voice when he spoke again, though the worry remained heavy. “Let’s take it back a step, those are some strong words to be throwing around. Kid looks like he got a little banged up on the head, a little snotty from crying too much —”

 ** **"Boss, that isn’t mucus from his nose,”**** she interrupted. ****“It’s cerebrospinal fluid, and its leaking from both his nose and ears.”****

Tony was quick to take notice. He gripped Peter’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, moving his head side-to-side to better look at what his AI spoke of. Sure enough, a thin trickle of semi-clear liquid streamed from both ear canals, and despite having only recently cleaned his face free of vomit, a heavy current of the same fluid came trickling out of his nose.

Peter even sniffed a few times, followed up by a groggy and incoherent whimper.

Okay, not just a bump on the head — time to get worried.

“What are my options here, FRI?” Tony didn’t like how his voice wavered with instability. He also didn’t like how Peter’s glazed and unfocused eyes stared ahead at nothing in particular, listless of the boy he’d come to know. He let one hand rest on Peter’s shoulder while his other tapped relentlessly against his thigh, his knees soaking up the rainwater and god knows what else in the alleyway.

“ **There aren’t many, boss,”** she finally answered, earning a hard sigh from Tony. **“Because of his enhanced abilities, I do not recommend calling public EMS. However, it will take Ms. Potts approximately an hour and twenty minutes to arrive if she were to drive from upstate, double that time to return back to the compound’s medbay. Flying him there is too risky, as it could further agitate any head trauma he has sustained. It could also put him at a much higher risk of a seizure.”**

Tony rolled his eyes. “I asked for _options,_ not a list of things I shouldn’t do.”

“ **I figured you’d want to hear everything before I list off the most recommended course of action.”**

“Which is…?” Tony’s grip tightened as Peter swayed to the side. He had been so preoccupied keeping him from falling over that he wasn’t sure he had heard FRIDAY correctly when she first spoke.

“ **Steve Rogers is roughly fifteen minutes away at his home in Brooklyn.”**

Tony froze.

“Okay...” he started, “aside from reminding you that Rogers being pardoned doesn’t give you the right to think we’re back on I-need-a-favor terms, exactly _how_ is that helpful?”

“ **His apartment complex is the only building in a 25 mile distance that could provide access to a helicopter landing. Med-evac will be able to pick you up from there.”**

The sheer, unbelievable coincidence had Tony running his free hand down the length of his face, eventually scrubbing at his forehead with frustration. It may have been months now that Captain-friggin-goody-two-shoes and the other rogues were pardoned, but they hadn’t exactly gotten past the just-remain-civil-to-each-other phase yet.

Not to mention, he had managed to keep the whole Spider-man fiasco on the down-low since their return. He knew how Steve felt about that, having seen the fresh blood they were both supposed to recruit together used against him in Berlin. The star-spangled-asshole didn’t even need to directly tell him he was upset by it — things were that obvious.

In Tony’s defense, he stood by his stance that Rogers needed the reality check, and besides, the _last_ thing he wanted to do tonight was drag a teenage vigilante into the man’s apartment, not after they were supposed to —

“What the — hey!” A sudden ruffle of movement from Peter caught Tony’s attention, the kid scrambling to get back on his knees with uncoordinated movements. Any other day and Tony would have laughed. Right now he just wanted to keep his own breathing from shaking, his nerves rattling inside what felt like a compressed rib cage.

“Hey, twerp, what are you trying to do?” Tony continued to fight against him, desperate to keep him still. “You trying to give yourself more brain damage?”

“...penny...” Peter pathetically slurred out, his limp finger pointing somewhere ahead. “There’s...a...penny. Gotta...gotta...I...”

Tony’s forehead creased with raw concern as he watched Peter’s throat convulse, the Adams Apple bobbing with forceful spasms while his face turned five shades too white.

“...I...don’t f’el...”

It took all of a millisecond for him to collapse forward, straight into Tony’s chest.

“ _Shi_ — Peter!”

Only by Tony’s quick thinking did he save the kid from slipping down to the pavement below. His arms reached hastily to wrap around him, his movements fast, albeit panicked. He found his fingers digging deep into the large spider symbol on this back.

When the moment of adrenaline passed, Tony couldn’t help but notice the quick, rapid breathing coming from Peter, his back hitching with uneven breaths. It almost matched Tony’s own shaking, his fingers trembling harshly against the fabric of the spider-man suit.

It looked like there wasn’t any question in what he needed to do. Immeasurable, unbelievable aversion and objection, absolutely. But as he gripped Peter closely, FRIDAY’s scans still visible through his glasses, he knew he didn’t have a say in the matter.

Tony looked briefly to the sky, willing himself the strength and patience he needed for this.

“Kid, you owe me big time,” he mumbled, biting back a sigh of frustration. “FRI...go ahead and call the old man.”

With what little bit of selfishness he had resonating inside of him, Tony wished he had at least gotten a drink before leaving the restaurant. He sure as hell could use one right about now.


	2. A Sticky Situation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tony,” Steve warned, his tone stressed, his eyes never looking away from Peter. “I need you to move.”
> 
> “What!?” The twig of Tony’s patience snapped. “Are you going senile —!”
> 
> It happened in an instant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love how everyone is doing Endgame Fix-it’s while I’m over here, fingers plugging my ears singing “La-da-da-da-da, Endgame never happened, la-da-da...” 
> 
> So yeah, this is just one of my many Civil War fix-it head-canons. Steve and Tony knew about Spider-man before the Accords were thrown in their face, even planned to recruit him to the Avengers — together. But it wasn’t until Tony needed an enhanced for Berlin that he took action. It was there he personally got to know Peter Parker. After that, the whole Accords debacle got settled and Steve and the rogues are just now getting back into the swing of things, all while Tony had been busy mentoring Peter himself. Tony wasn’t exactly ready to introduce Peter to the team, especially not Steve, seeing as he sorta went against their original plan of how Queen’s local hero would be introduced to the Avengers. 
> 
> But when ya don’t have a choice, ya don’t have a choice…

It was, bar none, the hardest decision Tony ever had to make.

If it was anyone else, _anyone else,_ he’d have help at their side with every dollar he could possibly throw at public emergency services. He’d let them land their helicopter in the middle of Manhattan and pay the fines to the city with the spare cash in his wallet.

He sure as hell wouldn’t be doing this — wasting precious time because they needed _his_ people treating Peter, very enhanced and mutated Peter who couldn’t just be carried into any regular ‘ol hospital.

 _God,_ this kid made things so difficult.

And it didn’t end there. Getting him into Steve’s apartment turned out to be more challenging than either of them anticipated. Not because he weighed heavy with muscle that a normal, average teenage boy would almost certainly never have — no, in fact, Rogers carried him in his arms as if he were no more than a few grocery bags.

The difficult part came from making sure bystanders didn’t gawk as Captain America bridal-style carried Spider-man into the Brooklyn apartment complex with Tony freaking Stark at his side.

Sitting in the backseat of Steve’s car — the Audi _he_ bought the man a year prior, go figure — Tony shook his head. Oh, what his life had become.

A door slammed shut and he tore his gaze away from the unmasked teenager laying sprawled out in his lap.

“We in the clear?”

Steve curtly nodded, all but jogging out of the front entrance to the building.

“For now. Not sure how long, let’s hurry.”

The car door was already ajar, allowing Steve to work in fast, fluid movements while he gathered the nearly unconscious Peter from the backseat. He groaned and whined, but otherwise didn’t put up a fight, limp and unresponsive throughout the manhandling.

They both moved quickly yet gently, Tony propping up his backside while Steve hooked one arm underneath his knees, ready at any moment to slide him out.

Only when he pulled, he was greeted with immediate resistance.

Tony’s fingers seemed to stay latched onto Peter’s shoulder, preventing him from easily scooping the kid into his arms. The unintelligible moan from his split and blood-caked lips seemed to make it worse; those same fingers gripped Peter’s shoulder tighter.

Steve paused. A brief yet stern look was all that had been needed for Tony to relent, letting him fully take over. And while Tony may have released his grip, he didn’t seem all too thrilled about it.

It was just one of the many things they had to sweep under the rug. They didn’t have time to argue, not right now. As it was, Tony barely managed to brief Steve on the important details during their quick ride over the Brooklyn Bridge.

“Close that door, let’s go.” Steve’s voice was strong underneath his breath, heavy with purpose and command.

Tony slammed the car door shut behind him, fast on his feet to keep up with Rogers. They entered the apartment’s lobby with long, hasty strides. The elevators were straight ahead and they both made a mad dash for it, desperate not to be seen. They’d never recover from the headlines if someone dared snap a photo and sold it to The Daily Bugle. There was only so much _“Photoshop! Fake!”_ his PR team could manage.

Already having thought ahead, Tony draped his Armani blazer over the upper portion of Peter’s body, making sure the kid’s young and exposed face was purposefully covered. Each step they took, he angled his body in ways that would shield the red-clad boots from being seen. Every second they stood in the lobby, his head turned all around, on the constant lookout to ensure no one had noticed them.

Though it seemed to be a miracle that they got into the elevators without being seen, getting out unnoticed would be the real challenge.

The elevator _dinged_ and the doors neatly split open, immediately greeting them both with the overwhelming smell of...was that Philly Cheesesteaks?

Steve visibly sniffed a few times, making sure he wasn’t imagining things based off the fact that he had skipped dinner. A quick glance at Tony told him he wasn’t alone; the hallway smelt strong with a lingering aroma of freshly toasted bread, grease and onions.

Peering his head out, Tony watched a food delivery man with a _‘Grubhub’_ jacket knock on someone’s door, doing that annoying as hell _shave and a haircut_ tap.

He looked back at Steve, relieved to see the soldier nod his head in the opposite direction.

“Third door on the right, it’s unlocked,” he whispered, adjusting Peter in his arms.

Tony furrowed his brows, stepping out of the elevator while trying to remain casual. “You leave your door unlocked?”

Behind them, the tenant answered for their food, discussing something about needing to grab change for a tip.

“In emergencies like this, _yes,_ ” Steve hissed shortly, eagerly head nodding ahead. “Now come on, let’s go!”

They managed to get to his unit just as the door down the hall closed shut. The Grubhub delivery man began to head towards the elevator, too busy counting his tip to notice anything amiss. That, or he truly didn’t care.

It was Friday night in Brooklyn, both Steve and Tony had a feeling he’d seen stranger things.

Tony threw the door open with one quick twist of his wrist, stepping aside so Cap could walk in first.

“How far out is that chopper, FRI?” he demanded, not a second later than from when the door closed behind him. It didn’t take long to find the nearest light switch in the room, flipping it and brightening up the apartment.

“ **Less than fifteen minutes,”** FRIDAY answered, a real-time display of their route already showcased through his high-tech glasses. **“I would advise another scan, boss. Last recording of vital signs showed a dangerously high blood pressure of** — **”**

“Yes, yes, I know, I’m on it.” Tony’s voice was strained, but steady. It earned a look from Steve, who slowly and gently sat Peter down against the back of his couch.

“Shouldn’t we be taking him to the roof?” Steve asked, letting go of Peter only to immediately latch back on before he could sway into a sideways slump.

Tony fell to his knees on the opposite side, the dampness from his knees creating stains on the rug below.

“Already got a suit up there in sentient mode. It’ll direct EMS straight to us.” Tony tapped his index finger against the side of his glasses, a blue light piercing out from the lenses and streaming across Peter.

Steve furrowed his brows. “If we start moving him now, we can get him up there before Medevac even arrives.”

“ **I would not advise moving him any further, Captain Rogers,”** FRIDAY spoke up, saving Tony the trouble of having to respond. And thank God for it, his patience was barely hanging on by a thread. **“Though my scans are inadequate** **to that of an** **MRI, I am detecting** **increased intracranial pressure** **correlating with his rising blood pressure.”**

Tony was pretty sure he needed a medical scan of himself after hearing those words. His heart seized in his chest in a way that nearly crippled him.

“ _Jesus,_ ” he blew out, removing his glasses and scrubbing at his face. Beneath the palms of his hands, he muttered words that were barely heard. “You really go all out, don’t you, kid?”

Steve’s eyes roamed over Peter, confusing clouding his expression.

“Tony, what happened to him?”

“I don’t know!” Tony snapped, his face pinching in frustration. “I haven’t exactly had the time to review the Baby Monitor footage yet!”

“The baby — what?” Steve gaped, tearing his eyes from Peter to shoot Tony a look.

“It’s a protocol in his suit. It records — _Christ,_ can you make yourself useful and get some ice or something!?”

The steadiness that had once lined Tony’s voice was quickly being replaced with panic. Raw, unadulterated panic. Hearing things like _‘increased intracranial pressure’_ typically did that to him.

Peter nearly titled forward and Tony shot a quick hand out to steady him, flush against the center of his chest. His fingers spread out along the spider emblem to the suit.

Steve didn’t fight him as he took over his place holding Peter upright, nor did he mention the tremble in Tony’s hands as he held a firm open palm against Peter’s chest. He wordlessly retreated to the kitchen, stress audible in his footsteps.

“Parker!” Tony snapped his fingers in front of his face, the loud clicks failing to stir a response. It only managed to skyrocket his panic. “Hey, look alive, Spider-man!”

“... _mhm_...” Peter’s eyelids fluttered open briefly before staying shut.

“Come on, kid,” Tony sighed, anxiously tense. “You gotta work with me here.”

“Go easy on him,” Steve hollered from the kitchen, followed by the sound of a freezer door slamming shut. “It looks like he hit his head pretty hard.”

Tony snorted. “Ya think?”

His hands reached for his discarded glasses, slipping them back on his face. The array of information that greeted him was nauseating — while he was no doctor, he at least knew the basics. And right now, Peter’s vitals were swimming down the toilet.

Still, he didn’t need the tech to tell him the obvious. One good look at Peter’s face pierced through his already fleeting composure. Dark, purple bruising had already formed underneath and around his eyes, and if it got any worse he’d be first in line for a raccoon look-alike contest.

What was that called again? Battle's sign or something? Tony couldn't remember, couldn't think past the surface level of his thoughts. All he knew was that this wasn’t just a concussion, this wasn’t a bump on the head — this was bad. And seemingly getting worse by the minute.

Damn it, where was that chopper?

“FRI, talk to me,” he managed around the tightness in his throat. “What do I do now?”

There was a beat before she answered, **“You’ve done all you can, boss. Keep him still, and awake if possible. Medevac** **thirteen minutes out.”**

Steve returned quietly, kneeling down next to him and cautiously placing a frozen bag of peas to the back of Peter’s head.

“This looks bad, Tony,” he said, hushed and concerned.

Tony swallowed thickly. “It sure as hell doesn’t look good.”

He ripped his glasses off one final time; FRIDAY could go on speaker mode if they needed her. The display of vital signs illuminating through those glasses was simply a source of his deterioration. Right now, he desperately needed to gain some control. He was wound up tightly, tendrils of agitation, annoyance and _goddamn anxiety_ unraveling him at the seams.

He managed a deep breath.

Okay, keep the kid awake. He could do that, that was easy.

“Peter, c’mon! Time to greet your guests!” he shouted, so loud that normally the kid would be flinching with aggravation, his heightened senses delicate to even the lightest of yelling. It stirred no reaction. Not even a whine. “Wake up, Parker. Hey! You with me? Wake up!”

Peter’s neck rolled to the side, his head lolling onto his shoulder like melting jello. “...mhmm...Imma...test...t’day...”

Somehow, hearing those slurred, incoherent mumbles only served to further make Tony's chest clamp dangerously tight.

“ _Shit,_ ” he cursed, thankful that Rogers had the decency to not berate him for his foul language.

Speaking of the devil — he looked up to his right where Steve had knelt, tenderly holding the bag of frozen peas to the back of Peter’s head. It was alarming to see the cool, collected soldier with stress lines etched across his face, taking in Peter’s appearance studiously, cautiously.

“Peter? You with us, champ?” Steve called out, his volume much lower than Tony’s. “Peter, we need you to answer us. Open your eyes, son.”

The knot in Tony’s gut tightened at the sight of Steve acting so...god, what was that? It was more than concern, more than forced entanglement to his well being. It almost seemed like the type of natural protective bearing he reserved for his fellow teammates.

For a brief moment, the boiling pit of panic in his gut twitched with confusion. Steve and Peter didn’t know each other, they didn’t have that kinship. Tony took that opportunity away the moment he recruited Spider-man for Berlin.

“So this is the kid, huh?” Steve murmured, never once meeting his gaze.

The shift in conversation seemed to come out of nowhere. Tony pursed his lips. It was like the man was stumbling around in his head, reading his own thoughts. He scoffed — best of luck to him, not even _he_ wanted to be in his own head right now.

“This is the kid,” Tony muttered back, absentmindedly nodding.

Steve shifted on his knees, the sound of plastic crinkling barely managing to cut through the tension between them.

“Not exactly who I pictured underneath that mask,” he admitted, keeping the makeshift ice pack in place.

Tony could have laughed. He settled on a dry chuckle. “Shoulda saw him last year, before he hit puberty.”

A heavy, unspoken aura nearly replaced the undeniable, brimming anxiety of the situation. Barely kneeling a foot apart, only a lanky and nearly unconscious teenager separating them, Steve shot a look so cold it could have very well been the same temperature as those frozen peas.

“Well, that was the plan, wasn’t it?” Steve’s voice was tight, tinged with something Tony couldn’t quite name. “Recruit him together?”

The sheer audacity sent a hole straight through his lungs.

“You’re going to come at me like that?” Tony snapped, instantly defensive, immediately _not in the mood._

Steve shook his head. “I’m just saying —”

“Really? Right now?”

“You’re the one that called me, Tony,” Steve stressed. “You needed help with the kid, the one who we were going to —”

“Oh, give me a break!” Tony’s voice thundered over his.

Steve didn’t stop talking. “— in an alleyway with a pretty serious head injury —”

“Can we not, right now?” Tony shot back, eyebrows knitted tightly together. “For _his_ sake, can you just... _not?_ ”

The message was loud and clear. Now wasn’t the place and it certainly wasn’t the time.

Steve let out a deep sigh, one that heaved his entire back upwards.

“It's not like you’ve ever been one to stick with the plan,” he mentioned, slightly under his breath.

Tony heard him. And he wasn’t letting that go. “The plan was to get him safe, under a watchful eye while he did his thing.” The hot fire in his throat kept him from mentioning the _‘_ _and protect him’_ part that he so clearly was failing at. “I did just that.”

Steve took a deep breath in through his nose. “We were going to do that together.”

Tony’s jaw tensed. “ _Sorry,_ but the last time I checked you were a little preoccupied,” he snapped, sarcasm dripping in his tone. “And if you remember, I needed an enhanced on my side to even the playing field, so _yeah,_ the plan changed.”

“There shouldn’t have been a playing field to begin with.” Steve’s voice died out, barely audible as he finished.

There was a beat. The bag of peas crinkled again and Tony could have sworn he heard condensation drip to the rug below. For a fleeting moment, the silence roared — or perhaps that was the blood rushing through his ears.

“No...” he trailed off, an undercurrent of ire and annoyance doing a damning job at hiding the hurt that still tinted his tone. “No, there shouldn’t have been.”

An indisputable groan saved them both from the lull in uncomfortable and very unwanted conversation.

“...mr. ‘tark?”

The voice was so small that had they been talking, Tony wasn’t sure he would have heard it. It brought with it an arc of electricity, flashing in the air.

He shot his head back over to Peter at a record-breaking speed.

“Hey, there we are,” Tony coaxed, his voice a shade softer than Steve had ever heard it before. “Keep your eyes on me, buddy. Focus up.”

His open palm reached to cup the back of Peter’s neck, holding it there firmly. As he did, Peter’s eyelids barely opened past half-mast, fluttering upwards with what seemed to be great difficulty.

“...wh’er...where am I?”

“Uncle Sam’s place,” Tony immediately responded, little care actually in his answer. He watched as Peter’s eyes rolled around, nearly making himself dizzy in the process. “Nuh-uh. Bambi eyes on me, Pete.”

There wasn’t much to look at in the apartment, unless Peter had suddenly become interested in 1940 antique décor, of which Steve seemed to have an abundance of. Still, his eyes roamed like loose ping-pong balls, dull and nearly colorless from the blown pupil on the one side. They only stopped once having caught sight of the Captain himself.

“...’m I in de’ention?” he croaked out.

Steve quirked an eyebrow high, looking to Tony for an answer.

Tony shook his head with a shrug.

“No clue,” he dryly stated, his attention never leaving Peter. “Hey, bud, come on now. Don’t you want to stay awake for the helicopter ride? We both know I’ll never hear the end of it if you sleep through that.”

Peter’s only response was a deep sniff, followed by a drawn-out and painfully sounding moan.

Tony frowned, gripping the nape of his neck tighter to better look at his face. A quick look to both sides showed that his ears were still damp with wetness and his nose was still running freely with what FRIDAY painfully pointed out was _not_ I-just-hurt-myself-kiddy-snot.

“Why’s this stuff leaking out, FRI?” Tony used his free hand to dab at Peter’s ears with the back of his sleeve. “And more importantly, how do I plug the hole?”

“ **Leakage of **cerebrospinal fluid** **is a well-known complication** **of head trauma** **. Whatever happened must have created** **a** **tear or hole in the membranes surrounding his brain. I have alerted EMS of his condition so they can properly prepare for medical treatment. Medevac nine minutes out.”****

Tony cursed — repeatedly. “Shit. Goddamn it, _shit!_ ”

The realization tripped the wire for him, alerting a plethora of deep, sickening fears. Each was sharp, volatile. It was both his gift and a curse to see ahead of the game, to calculate an abundance of possibilities from one simple equation.

And right now he saw many — head trauma, brain damage, neurological problems — god, what about his intelligence? Would this be the start of something they could never return form?

 _Damn it,_ this kid was his responsibility and he may have very well just royally fucked him up for life.

“Has he gone through anything like this before?” Steve asked, as if sensing the need to distract him.

Tony shook his head. Was he letting his panic show that much that Rogers needed to play the role of _‘leader’_ towards him ? What could he say, this entire situation was taking ten years off his already quickly aging life.

He found his hand was trembling fiercely, Peter’s thin little whines of pain twisting a knife deep in his gut.

“No, not like this,” Tony finally answered, just now realizing he had clenched his eyes shut. He removed his palm from the nape of Peter’s neck and settled it instead on his shoulder, clenching and unclenching every so often.

“So he’s never had a concussion before?” Steve asked, gesturing to Peter’s head.

The star-spangled-pain-in-his-ass wasn’t letting the conversation have any suspension. It only managed to further agitate Tony.

“Yes, but not like this!”

“You gotta calm down, Tony.”

He meant for his next words to come out as a low, warning threat.

“I _am_ calm!” Tony shouted, squeaking in a way only comparable to Peter’s pubescent changing voice. So much for that.

Peter’s arm flung out before their argument could go any further. It nearly knocked into Tony’s chest as he did, more force in the action than he had shown in the entire past hour.

“Whoa, whoa...easy there, pal.” Tony leaned back onto his thighs to avoid the sudden swing.

Seemingly not hearing him, Peter went to wipe at his nose with the back of his hand. His movements were uncoordinated, sloppy and sluggish. Black and slightly bulky web-shooters knocked into his nose, the metal smearing trickling liquid from his nostrils across his face.

Peter pulled away, looking at his hand with confusion. Tony would have found it to be an adorable moment, had he not been so out of his mind from whatever skull-rattling experience that brought him here.

“Here, c’here, let’s get these off you,” Tony gently said, gathering his forearm into his own hand. “You won’t need these where you’re going anyway.”

Sitting next to him, Steve quietly eyed the two with a carefully placed, neutral expression. He had no words, both surprised and puzzled to witness such a consoling side to the billionaire.

“Ease up there, kiddo.” Tony’s face contorted as he fought to remove the web-shooter’s, Peter’s arm suddenly no longer the limp noddle it had once been. “Relax those muscles, you’re fine.”

What should have been an easy task somehow doubled in difficulty. The act of removing the devices from his wrists seemed more challenging than carrying him inside the apartment, and that had been stress-inducing enough to give him a heart attack. The kid hadn’t fought in the slightest then; Tony wasn’t sure what had gotten into him now.

Peter weakly shook his head, his back going ram-rod straight against the couch. “... _no_...s-stop...”

“Hey, hey, calm down. You don’t need these right now, spiderling.” Tony got the second web-shooter off with a grunt, turning it over in his hands immediately for examination.

Steve closed the distance between them, an impressive act considering there was barely a foot separating them in the first place.

“You still with us, Peter?” he asked, his voice suddenly louder than before.

In hindsight, Steve’s rising anxiety had been visible, palpable even. Tony was too busy fiddling with the web-shooter’s to notice, too preoccupied to see that Steve had discarded the pathetic excuse for an ice pack in favor of peeling Peter’s eyelids back open.

“...smells...like pennies...” Peter choked out, barely coherent, his words a mess of slurs between his lips. His eyes held no focus, staring ahead into an empty space of nothing.

Tony, meanwhile, sat next to him while frantically knocking his knuckles against the sleek design of the web-shooter’s.

“Damn it! I think the central spinneret mechanism jammed. That shouldn’t have happened, not unless...”

It wasn’t until Steve pressed a firm hand against his shoulder that Tony finally looked up.

“Tony,” Steve warned, his tone stressed, his eyes never looking away from Peter. “I need you to move.”

“What!?” The twig of Tony’s patience snapped. “Are you going senile —!”

It happened in an instant.

Peter kicked back so suddenly, with such startling, enhanced force that Tony skidded straight into the wall.

Across the room.

_THUD!_

His back slammed into the drywall, knocking a photo frame from above that crashed down below. He barely leaned out the way to avoid the shattering glass from hitting his own head, a _crack_ and _splinter_ resonating in his ears.

And yet it was the last concern on his mind, the last thing he cared about. Because in front of him, he watched with wide, frantic eyes as Peter buckled and twisted wildly against Steve’s grip.

“FRIDAY!?” Tony shouted, unable to tear his eyes away from the horrific scene ahead.

“ **Grand-mal seizure, boss!”**

Tony was on his knees in an instant, lunging forward in a desperate attempt to crawl back over. The closer he got, the more he could see Steve struggle to hold Peter down on his side. When had that —? He was last upright against the sofa and now —  _damn it_ the kid was strong! Even the _sofa_ had been pushed back in his fit of convulsions.

And the sounds. _Jesus,_ the sounds. His heart plummeted at each deafening gasp that tore through Peter’s lungs, the choking, grunting noises ripping straight into him with sharp, piercing claws.

Steve shot his head over to him. “Could use – some help – here, Tony!”

Within seconds Tony had a gauntlet wrapped around his hand, literally pulling the device from his wrist-watch before he had even reached the two.

“You saw that coming!?” Tony asked, out of breath.

The air rockets to the gauntlet whirred to life and he held his hand firmly against Peter’s shoulder. His body rocked nonetheless, Peter’s super-strength a force they couldn’t reckon with, not with his muscles thrashing so violently.

It felt like restraining a wild animal.

“Seen them before,” Steve rushed out, his physical exertion spoken in his heaves for air. “Soldiers...battlefield explos — Tony, he’ll choke! Hold him on his side!”

“I am!”

Steve wasn’t exaggerating; a gurgle of saliva foamed at Peter’s mouth, his jaw locking stiff in a crooked position. It coalesced into a puddle on the floor where the side of his face planted firmly against the rug, his head shaking, trembling with each thrash of his body.

Tony struggled to look away, look anywhere but the whites of Peter’s eyes that had rolled to the back of his head, the blood that spilled down his lip from his bitten tongue — he nearly lost his grip the moment the apartments doors burst open, a flood of uniformed paramedics storming in.

“Oh, thank _god,_ ” Steve breathed out.

They broke through the threshold of the room with a stern approach, quick, distinct, precise movements highlighting Tony and Steve’s naivety to it all. No one needed to instruct them to move out of the way — they both stepped aside almost immediately.

“Not a moment too soon, boys,” Tony managed, all but gasping for air. He knew the kid was strong but damn _,_ he must have forgotten just _how_ strong. No doubt his arms were going to feel the effects in the morning.

They strapped Peter to a gurney, quickly, so quick that Tony found himself gritting his teeth. Buckles were everywhere, from his ankles to his shoulders, all immobilizing him. They even had his head neatly encased between two blocks of foam, stealing sight of those brown curls around his head.

Their pandemonium was intense, tightly controlled.

Getting to the roof was a blur, a mess of blue uniforms huddled together and forcing Tony to stay back at a distance. He didn’t fight them, his feet were already faltering to stay upright.

He hadn’t realized Rogers had followed them up, not until they stood side-by-side under the night sky, darkness kept at bay from the Brooklyn cityscape.

The rotors of the helicopter flared to life, gaining speed and creating a torrent of wind that hit harshly against Steve’s face. He was so caught up watching the paramedics gather Peter into the helicopter that he never noticed Tony staring his way, the man almost assessing him, questioning him.

And then a hand extended out, gaining his attention.

“Thank you,” Tony mouthed, his words captive to the rushing sounds around them.

Steve nodded curtly, grasping Tony’s hand and holding his elbow in the shake. He may have said something to the extent of _‘take care of him’_ — Tony wasn’t sure, not over the wind of the helicopter blades nearby.

All he knew was that the stiff civility between them had been diffused, a common interest remediating their broken amends.

The billionaire snatched a bulky headset from the pilot, slipping the earmuffs over his head before disappearing in the crowd of paramedics.

Steve watched them take off with rapt perception, arms crossed over his chest, hair blowing back in the wind. Only once the helicopter had departed, becoming nothing more than a speck in the skyline above, did he finally retreat back inside for the night.

For Tony, things were just beginning. His composure crumbled the moment he was inside the helicopter, his heart in his throat, having collapsed in the seat across from where the paramedics worked. The space was so small that his knees pressed against the metal of the gurney.

Everything seemed to hit him at once. Either that or hearing the paramedic talk through the headphones about _subdural hematoma_ and _intubation_ caught him off guard. And Peter — jeeze, the kid looked so small laying in front of him, surrounded by a multitude of portable medical equipment that cemented the feeling of failure rendering him inept.

The suit was supposed to protect the kid. _He_ was supposed to protect the kid.

He didn’t understand how this happened.

They lifted in the air shortly after he finally managed to buckle himself in, and not a moment too soon. Adrenaline departed long before he was ready for it leave, his chest capsizing in on itself when he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, head heavy in his hands. When he looked up again, his eyes were clouded.

He was quick to hide behind his glasses, quick to stay busy even in the midst of a moment that provided him no task but to sit and wait.

“FRIDAY...” Tony sighed, his voice feeling twenty years older and five times weaker than before. “Link up with Baby Monitor protocol in the spider-suit. I want the last hour of active footage sent to the medical staff before we land. Feel free to save a copy on my personal hard drive as well.”

An answer to what happened may not be the solution he needed, but it could at least provide a remedy to the ache that had stolen his concentration, a riptide of anxiety now coursing through his veins. He could at least figure out what happened so that it could be prevented in the future. So that _he_ could prevent it in the future.

Because he would — he would never let this happen again, not on his watch. Not when he could make upgrades, repairs, better tech, all to protect Peter from something as _stupid_ as a bump on the head, one so bad he may possibly — could possibly…

Tony swallowed past the thick panic rising in his throat. His eyes never looked away from Peter, never looked anywhere but the gurney stretched out in front of him during the entire trip upstate. Silently, remorsefully, he just hoped they had a future in store where he could prevent this from happening again.

He didn’t want to entertain the idea of anything else.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Swinging through the dynamic, dramatic skyline of New York City had become one of his favorite hobbies.

 _Whoosh, whoosh,_ the air would sing against his ears, a breeze that hissed a cold, defiant white noise. It was so constant, so reliant, that sometimes he’d even dream about it. _Whoosh, whoosh._

This wasn’t that.

Noise was everywhere — garbled, muffled, people talking, no, wait, they were yelling. Bags rustling, machines beeping, switches flipping on and on and on. The thrum of rotors pierced his eardrums, powering up like an industrial turbine, the world around him sharp-edged, broken like glass.

He could normally make it all out, take in every little sound with accurate precision. Not now, not over the roaring howl of wind. This wasn’t the harsh gust of the city whipping against his face. This was something else entirely.

Vaguely, he wondered if Aunt May was washing her clothes. He hoped she didn’t mix his suit with her whites again. Someone should tell her that the spin cycle was broken, it was too loud — everything was _too loud._

Hands touched him everywhere.

_Please, please, please get off. Get off, I don’t know you! Please stop, please get off!_

He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t move, couldn’t escape the percussion of heavy beating drums that rattled inside his skull. The sensations were sharp, crisp. He could feel his ribs move with each breath he dragged in, could feel his heart struggle to beat in the cage of bone.

Every sensation, every sound, it cut into his nerve endings with a scolding knife. It was a sensory overload, one he had never felt the likes of before.

_Please, turn it OFF!_

His breathing felt erratic, and it was, and he was erratic right alongside it. His legs twitched, painfully. His arms trembled. The muscles in his throat clenched in a weak attempt to warn them — _You gotta get away, I’ll hurt you!_ _I’m too strong!_ He might have groaned in his attempt, he wasn’t sure. Nothing could be heard over the rushing sounds around him.

They pushed and pulled at him, strapped and tied him down, moving limbs he couldn’t feel and had forgotten existed. Yet no one could save him from the quicksand he slowly sank into, slowly engulfing him.

His chest hitched. _I don’t know what happened. I don’t know where I am._ _I don’t..._

_Someone...please._

He felt like he was tottering on the edge of a steep precipice, a bottomless pit that sucked him in with no regard to the laws of gravity. And when he fell, there was no coming back up. No web to save him.

The fall never stopped. An endless drop.

_Please, help._

It was a disagreement between him and his alter-ego. Spider-man was supposed to be strong, brave. But Peter Parker had a hole in his gut, one that deepened with an intense, childlike desperation for safety. For his Aunt, for familiar comfort, for someone to take care of him. He was lost, confused, but most of all he was _scared._

_I don’t know...please…_

The beast that was his pain sunk its teeth deep into his head, biting through tissue and brain matter and his very core of existence. The overwhelming need to sleep, to let go and plummet endlessly in the sea of pitch black darkness was no match for even Spider-man. Within the fall, he felt himself drift, floating away for an indefinite time.

There was a burning sensation in his eyes, lava hot liquid seeping down into his temples, into his hairline. Somewhere in the depths of his muddled thoughts was he aware that it was tears. He was crying. And he knew he shouldn’t be — he was Spider-man, and Spider-man didn’t cry.

A hand grabbed his — or at least he thought it did, something big and callous taking a hold of his fingers. It responded to him, to that building fear that conspired against what little grasp of reality he had clung onto.

“ _Shhh, it’s okay, kid,”_ the voice was amazingly soft and strong all at once. He wished that could be him — wished he could be strong like that. _“You’re going to be okay, Pete. Hang in there, bud.”_

He recognized the voice. It was red and yellow, metallic and shiny. It was heroic, laced with protection.

“ _I’m going to get you a helmet when all this is over, just you wait and see. Red and blue. Maybe I’ll put a Mohawk on it. And if you think I’m joking, well, you have another thing coming. This entire city will make sure you won’t be swinging without it.”_

It was his safety, tangible relief from his own drifting mind. And though the fatigue was heavy, laden with hundreds of pounds of pressure threatening to crush his head, Peter held that hand with a fierce force.

While he couldn’t stop the feeling that he was falling, he at least trusted that voice to catch him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, this is not an amnesic fic. No, this is not a coma fic.
> 
> I’ll say it again for the people in the back – this is not an amnesia fic. This is not a coma fic. This fic is here to explore some side effects to head trauma that I’ve never really found other stories have touched on. And since Peter is a mutant/enhanced, it won't be 100% realistic, but as someone who works in medicine I like to play with that line of realism and fiction to sorta create something new.
> 
> I guess since this _somehow_ got an audience I should continue it, lol. See you next chapter :D


	3. Matter over Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She smiled. It was still watery, but there was softness in her eyes, affection and worry, and he felt the confusion strangling him release all at once.
> 
> “Sweet dreams, honey.”
> 
> Peter hummed. That meant sleep, right? It was what May would say after she tucked him into bed, turning off the lights so the glow-in-the-dark stars and planets that stuck to his ceiling would illuminate his bedroom. The entire planet system seemed to watch over him with a green twinkle, and he’d always count each one before letting himself drift off.
> 
> Every night, the same thing, the same routine. There was Mercury, Venus, Neptune, and Mars...

When Peter was seven, he collected pennies.

 

 

 

“ _...look at...scans...”_

 

“ _...definite subdural hemat...”_

 

“ _...reduced...cerebral blood flow...”_

 

 

 

Not quarters, not dimes, not even nickles. He had been insistent that his collection be for pennies only. And despite Uncle Ben’s various attempts at tainting his beautiful collection, not a single silver coin could be found in his dingy mason jar, crudely labeled _‘Peter Parker’s Pennies’_ with half-smudged, half-dried out Crayola marker.

 

 

 

“ _should...craniotomy?”_

 

“ _...no, too critc….wait...pressure...forty-six...”_

 

 

It was his goal to save up enough pennies to buy himself and Ned LED Star Wars Lightsabers from Toys R Us. Was it odd? Absolutely. But there was something prideful about...

 

 

 

...about…

 

 

 

“ _...that pressure...rising...burr hole…”_

 

“ _...prep...call...O.R...”_

 

 

 

Wait, hadn’t he remembered this before?

This felt familiar, like dejavu.

No, wait, not dejavu. Dejavu was something else. This was like having something on the tip of his tongue — he knew this one, he could practically hear MJ in decathlon practice. She’d ask him ‘What is the word for the meaning of on the tip of your tongue?’ and he’d answer ‘ice cream!’ because his tongue tasted like ice cream and…

Wait, no, that wasn’t right.

His tongue had tasted like metal. Hadn’t it?

 

 

“ _...need to contain...sensory overload...”_

 

Someone’s fingers peered his eyelid open and —

 

“ _...call...get...restraints!”_

 

Okay, bright! Bright! Very, very bright!

  
_“..._ _never seen…_ _anything_ _like this...”_

 

“ _For the last time, h_ _e’s enhanced!”_

 

Whoa. He knew that voice! Peter knew who it belonged to, he was sure of it.

 

It was ice cream man.

 

“ _...take him...after surgery...quiet chamber...”_

 

Wait, no.

 

Yes?

 

No.

 

No?

 

“ _...prepped...let’s move...get a drain in...”_

 

“ _...let’s hope...stable enough...”_

 

“ _You don’t hope. You do your damn jobs.”_

 

Damn it, what was going on? Who was touching him? And why were they being _so loud?_

Even the voices that were muffled and compressed managed to boom in his ears, echoing with the power of rockets having launched close by. Rushed pandemonium swan around him, thick and intense, and he didn’t know why, couldn’t understand anything outside of the high-pitched ringing that pierced through his skull.

There was one sound he could make out above it all, just vaguely. Peter could tell someone was crying. Not full on sobbing, but they were loud enough to hear over agonizing screech in his eardrums, clearly upset, groaning and moaning in-between each set of choked-off cries.

They sounded to be in pain. He could relate to that; every inch of him was in pain right now, especially his head. _God_ his head hurt.

There was a brief, fleeting desire to call out and make sure that person was okay. It wasn’t right that they were crying, that they were so upset. Whatever was happening, they clearly needed help; comfort at the very least.

Only when he opened his eyes — _bright! Too bright! Holy shit this is bright!_ — and before he knew it, something hard and heavy pressed against his mouth. It poured air against his lips, cold and potently sweet.

The cries nearby began to soften, eventually lessening into nothing. Peter couldn’t help but think it was coincidental that at the same time, he became quiet as well.

The overwhelming tug of sleep pulled at him like tendrils clutching into his eyeballs, and he could feel them as they fought to roll back, could feel as his eyelashes fluttered against each other.

“ _Don’t fight it, kiddo,”_ he heard against his ear, the voice hushed, yet somehow much discernible than the others. _“That’s enough anesthetic to knock out five elephants. Let it do its job.”_

“...mhmm...kay...” Was that him? Couldn’t be; way too squeaky, not like him at all. “...lethological...”

“ _Sure. Lethological.”_ There was a chuckle, one that came deep from someone’s throat, mixed with a watery sound that sounded way too sad. _“Happy trails, kid.”_

It was the last thing he heard for a while.

And while he didn’t dream, he remembered thinking of cherry ice cream. Of AT-AT Walkers dressed in black and red, Staten Island Ferries and falling from a plane high in the sky, the sands of Coney Island just out of reach.

The falling never seemed to stop.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Waking up for the first time was the worst.

Even with his eyes closed, he could see dancing colors in his vision, and every little smell set his stomach into knots. It was sterile, painfully so, to the point where the hairs in his nostrils burned from the chemicals. The tape on his arms and the sticky pads across his chest yanked painfully, roughly, like his skin would be ripped off if he moved even the slightest.

But nothing topped his head, nothing could even come close to it. His head was absolutely killing him, in ways he didn’t think were even physically possible. It was crushing, like a big hand was trying to squeeze his skull until it cracked open, the shell to a weak egg splintering apart. It was throbbing with extraordinary pressure, overwhelming, the beat to his own pulse _thumping_ across his forehead.

“... _ghuh..._ ” he moaned, his cheek lolling into the oh-so-soft pillow behind his neck. There was a _crinkle_ of something as his head moved, papery tissue sounding like knives against a chalkboard right against his ears. His eyes squeezed shut at the very sound.

“Shh, shhh...” a voice gently cut through the radiating pain, stealing even his breath. “Easy there, Pete. Not so fast, take it slow.”

He recognized that voice.

He trusted it.

“..wha hap’end?”

 _Ouch._ Speaking of voices, his own sounded downright awful. An eighty-six-year old chain smoker had more butter to their tone than he did. Hopefully trusted-voice wouldn’t point that out.

“You hit your head pretty bad there, bud. But don’t you worry, we’re fixing you up. You’ll be right as rain in no time.”

Peter half-groaned, half-hummed in response. There were more questions he wanted to ask, and trusted-voice seemed nice, kind, like he really cared. But the feathery pillow behind his neck was _so_ soft and _hell_ , he hadn’t even opened his eyes yet. He’d remember what he was going to say the next time he woke up.

For right now, he was just going to take a quick little nap…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Waking up for the first time was the worst.

Even with his eyes closed, he could see bleeding colors dripping in his vision, and every little smell set his stomach into knots. Everything was sterile, painfully clean, and his nostrils burned like he had mixed the wrong chemicals in lab class.

But nothing topped his head. No pain could come close to his head, the constant beating migraine sharp, heavy, flaring with a heat that warmed his every nerve. Whatever crazy bad-guy he had been fighting must have tried to smash his skull open like pinata. The throbbing was intense, beating and pounding against his forehead, a sharp ache right between his eyes — it was excruciating.

“...uhhugh...” he moaned, his neck rolling into the oh-so-soft pillow behind him. It would have been perfect, had a wire not caught in his hair and yanked painfully at his scalp.

Whatever yelping noise he made was smothered under a slew of soft encouragement nearby.

“Shh, shh, hey, slow your roll there, Underoo’s.” It was a hushed voice, only stern with obvious traces of worry. “Don’t go jumping-spider on us, not with all these wires connected to you.”

Peter smacked his lips. Or at least, he thought he smacked his lips. Everything felt foggy and distant, and his throat felt incredibly scratchy when he finally managed to ask, “..wha hap’end?”

There was a sigh, one that felt restrained, not fully released.

“You’ve got a bad head injury, Pete.” A hand grabbed his, rough and callous against his skin. It was nice. Familiar. “Don’t worry though, you’re going to get better.”

“Gunna...get...” he echoed under his breath, never finding the strength to finish his sentence. Instead, he settled on some twisted mixture of a groan-hum in response. “Mhmm...kay...”

The hand holding his squeezed tighter, an unspoken encouragement of their presence. Peter liked it. It was safe, grounding.

He tried to squeeze back and found that he just didn’t have the capability, not even enough to twitch his fingers. That wasn’t fair, the other person should know he appreciated their sentiment. He should tell them, make sure they didn’t think he was being rude.

His lips parted open and...that was as far as he got, the words dying out in a gust of air. It was the only sign that he ever planned to talk in the first place.

That was okay, he’d remember to tell them next time he woke up. For right now, the pillow behind his neck was so soft and he was so tired...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Waking up for the first time was the worst.

Red, yellow and blue danced beneath his eyelids, a bright and painful light-show he couldn’t seem to escape from, couldn’t find the switch to make it stop. Not to mention, wherever he was smelt _awful,_ making him nauseous, his stomach cramping into tight knots. The last time his nose burned this bad was when he had mixed the wrong chemicals in lab class. That wasn’t good, Ms. Warren hated when he made messes in class.

His arms and legs twitched restlessly, a pathetic attempt at moving to clean up the spill he had created. Once he realized how bad his head hurt, he froze with rigid muscles. Because _God_ did his head hurt. It felt like jackhammers hitting his skull, like the construction workers who had been working outside his apartment for months now weren’t drilling into the sidewalks but instead, they were drilling into him.

Not cool. He was going to file a complaint against the city for that.

“...mmhugh...”

An open palm pressed firmly against his cheek, keeping his head still before he could move a muscle. Callous fingers pressed against his jawline and Peter cracked an eye open — one eye, playing it safe — only to see a blob of misshaped colors standing over him.

If he didn’t know better, he’d say that blurry blob looked pretty darn close to Mr. Stark.

“Little spider-baby says what?”

Peter frowned, his eyebrows tugging down. “...wha?”

There was a chuckle far off in the room, and for a moment Peter could have sworn blurry blob smiled. It was hard to tell, what with him being a blob...and blurry.

“You’re okay. And before you ask again — you banged your noggin.” The voice let go off his cheek, though not before giving it a soft pat. “ _Arrivederci_ , buddy.”

Peter let the one eye he had open fall shut, the room darkening as the light around him receded from the edges outward. The heavy, feather-filled pillow beneath his neck was brilliantly comfortable and he relished in the feeling, quick to drift away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Waking up for the first time was —

“Go back to sleep, Pete.”

Peter let out a drowsy hum. No argument there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There was no defining moment that came with waking up for the second time.

In fact, he didn’t ever recall being asleep. All Peter remembered was that his eyes were already open, each one dry as a desert, and he could see May was sitting across from him. She was wearing her over-sized and worn-out blue cardigan with her large framed glasses, the kind he would joke made her look like a cartoon librarian. She looked comfortable, curled up in a plush armchair twice her frame.

Yet even with wide lenses covering her face, he could see that her eyes were glistening with smeared tears, looking to be as wet as the Hudson River. Peter wondered if she could loan him some of that wetness. His eyes were _really_ dry.

How long had he been staring? His cheek was smothered into the pillow behind his head, a blank and empty gaze boring into her. She didn’t seem bothered, so he figured it couldn’t have been too long.

“...hi,” Peter finally croaked out, the small sound thunderous to his ears.

She smiled. It was a watery smile, matching her eyes. “Hey there, tough guy.”

It was the first sound he heard outside his own voice, and it _hurt._ Pain lanced across his head, down his neck, across his forehead — a whimpering sound escaped his chest and it took everything in him to keep it from leaving his mouth, letting it instead suffocate between his clenched teeth. The very noise of his breathing sent shock-waves across his skin.

“..wha hap’end?” he asked, so quiet he wasn’t sure May had heard him. She stared at him as he stared at her, neither of them taking their eyes off each other. In turn, his vision quickly became hazy, blurry gray around the edges. Blinking had somehow become a Sisyphean task, creating a burn of hot liquid pooling in the crevices of his eyes.

May reached a finger to catch his tears before they could fall.

“You’re okay, Peter,” she whispered, softer than the pillow he rest his head on.

He noticed that she didn’t answer his question. He also didn’t remember what his question had been. That wasn’t right, that wasn’t like him at all. Something was wrong. His entire brain felt stuck in molasses, like he couldn’t get past his first thought despite having long forgotten what that thought even was.

He needed help. And if May couldn’t help him, then...

“...where’s...” Peter swallowed heavily, his throat suddenly feeling two times smaller than average. “...where’s Ben?”

He could physically feel time pass when she didn’t respond. Every second accompanied a shallow breath, a throb of his head, a squeeze of his hand. When had she grabbed his hand? Her fingers had intertwined with his and he only now just noticed, her long nails scratching against his knuckles.

“Tony’s here,” she said instead, still whispering, still too loud. “He’s been taking real good care of you. Got me here as fast as he could, too.”

Peter felt as his eyebrows furrowed, bringing with it an array of sticky tape and wires. When had they taped wires to his head? Why was he only now noticing that?

Wait, what was May saying?

“...you...what?”

She smiled. It was still watery, but there was softness in her eyes, affection and worry, and he felt the confusion strangling him release all at once.

“Sweet dreams, honey.”

Peter hummed. That meant sleep, right? It was what May would say after she tucked him into bed, turning off the lights so the glow-in-the-dark stars and planets that stuck to his ceiling would illuminate his bedroom. The entire planet system seemed to watch over him with a green twinkle, and he’d always count each one before letting himself drift off.

Every night, the same thing, the same routine. There was Mercury, Venus, Neptune, and Mars...

Peter finally closed his eyes, barely feeling May wipe away the tears that trickled down when he did.

“Hey, hey, they said this was normal. That it would pass, remember?” Huh. Hold up a second, he knew that voice. It was an angry voice. No, wait, it was a happy voice. Not-happy voice? Something with happy…

“I know, I know,” May’s words came out in a heavy breath, barely audible as he started to slip away.

He couldn’t sleep yet. He still had Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus...

“He’ll get through this. They’ll fix him up, I’m sure of it,” not-happy voice muffled, distracting him, keeping him from letting go of his tenuous hold on consciousness.

One more. Just one more...

“I know, you’re right, I know. It’s just...I haven’t heard him ask for Ben in so long. This _is all really..._ ”

Her voice trailed out as he fell asleep. Though not before he remembered Earth.

There was no forgetting planet Earth, not as he began to dream, began to fall endlessly from the sky. The blue ball was caked with white clouds and a vast sight to see at that, his body soaring past the solar system, tumbling near each planet that glistened with an eerie green glow.

But no matter how fast and how hard he fell, there was no touching land on Earth. Not even in his dreams did the falling stop.

 

 

 

 

 

Exhaustion hit him before he had even woken up.

How that was possible, Peter didn’t know. But he didn’t know a lot of things at the moment — where he was, what day it was, what time it was — so it was easy to chuck that into a bucket to deal with later. The faint sound of birds chirping outside caught his attention, so it was daytime, maybe?

Did that mean he needed to get up for school? Crap, he couldn’t afford to miss class again, not with May’s strict _‘_ _no Spider-manning unless school is in order’_ rule.

He went to roll over and found that his muscles were too heavy to use, like every ounce of fluid in his body had been replaced with concrete while he was asleep.

Uh...not good. Not good at all.

“..wha hap’end?” he found himself croaking, eyes still closed and unaware if anyone was around to answer his question.

There was a shuffle of movement — one that didn’t come from him, couldn’t have; his body was made up of ninety-percent mixing concrete now — followed by a deep sigh.

“Aliens abducted you. Tried to remove your brain. No-go, sucks for them.”

“Tony!” that voice was familiar, soft with a firm edge. It belonged to late nights watching newscasts, the kind May would say he was too young to be watching. He’d see the face it belonged to on nearly every magazine hastily stocked on the dusty shelf at Delmar’s. The voice was pretty, and red.

“What? He’s not going to remember this in point two minutes.”

“Tony.”

“ _Pepper._ ”

“That’s rude.” Pretty-red voice huffed.

A weak, wire-tangled hand pressed firmly against his eyes just as a lurch of pain ruptured in his head. It was too much noise, too much stimulation all at once.

“... _loud..._ ” Peter groaned, half the words landing in the stuffing of his pillow. The birds outside were suddenly far too loud, chirping and chirping and _shut up, shut up, please shut up!_ The voices that joked and laughed hit his ears in decibels beyond his wildest imagination and even his skin crawled at the very sensation of the blanket on top of him.

All of it, everything had been amplified tenfold, ears thrillingly sharp to the overload of input around him.

Heels clicked away, taking with it the voice that dwindled in the distance. “I’m going to get the nur...”

And then a hand was resting near his forehead, fingers gentle as could be when they carded through his hair. They ran circles in his scalp, as if trying to shush the beast that threatened to break open his skull.

Peter tried to ignore the feeling of his head threatening to implode as the voice talked, too loud for his liking.

“Bruce, we need another session in the quiet chamber,” followed by a more hushed, “Shh, you’re okay, bud. We got you, you’re good.”

A sharp _click_ nearby almost shattered his eardrums, and if he didn’t know better he’d say it accompanied a fast drip of liquid, pitter-pattering like rain on a rooftop. Only he could _feel_ it, he could feel each drip enter his body, rushing into his veins with a burning molten heat.

“You’re okay, Pete. Just let that do its job.”

Whatever _‘it’_ was, Peter had to admit...it did a wonderful job at relenting the anguish in his head. The muscles he never realized had tensed up began to loosen, strangely and suddenly at ease with where he was.

For one blissful moment, the world came to a slow crawl, and the only thing in existence was him and the gentle hand carding through his hair, filtering out even the smallest of noises around.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“ _You shouldn’t be here. We shouldn’t even be talking in this room.”_

“ _I wanted to check in on how he was doing. Can you really blame me for that?”_

It had become easy for Peter to discern his dreams from reality. For starters, there were never any voices in his dreams, only pictures. Moving images, snapshots of moments in time he’d later recall as memories.

He had been dreaming about Germany, about a giant, monster-sized hand smacking him across the airport, sending him plummeting to the ground. Like all the dreams his fragile consciousness had been conjuring, he never stopped falling, not even when the voices tore through the pastures of his own mind.

“ _He’s in sensory overload. Has been for goddamn days now. Too much stimulation will set him off, the smell of your breath will put him in that quiet chamber for the entire night.”_

“ _I understand —”_

“ _Why’d the nurses even let you in? I can smell your cologne from here. This is a stimuli-sensitive room. No soaps, no fragrances, no sounds —”_

“ _Then we can talk outside. I don’t want to bother him, honest. But it’s almost been a week and I’ve only gotten reports on what’s going on. I wanted to see him for myself.”_

“ _Yeah? And if I wanted you to see him, you’d have seen him.”_

“ _I take it you mean that in more ways than one.”_

“ _Rogers, I swear to God...”_

Peter felt like he was falling. Even awake, the darkness heavy behind his closed lids, back lying flat on a soft surface he could easily mistake for a floating cloud, the falling never stopped. Dizziness swam his head in thick circles, unrelenting, steadfast. There was vertigo deep in his stomach, making him breathless, corrupted lungs unable to expand to their full extent.

“ _I’m not trying to start an argument. Really, Tony, I’m not. I was just...I’ve been worried about the kid.”_

“ _Join the club.”_

To their credit, the voices were hushed, harsh whispers that penetrated the air with a razor-sharp edge. Peter heard them, though he couldn’t make much sense of what they were saying. He knew the words, he understood the sentences, but somehow none of it added up. It felt like doing math with shapes, trying to calculate two plus two into rectangle.

“ _Bruce said he’s getting better?”_ Peter wondered why that sounded more like a question than a statement. _“He’s been out of the induced coma for a while now, that’s a good sign, right?”_

There was a deep exhale of breath; a sigh. Then nothing.

Peter wondered if he had fallen asleep again, if the voices had died out for another illusion of an endless plunge he’d never find rescue from. And then…

“ _Pressure’s down, yes. His brain won’t be imploding in his skull anytime soon. Things should start looking up once his damned enhanced senses stop playing against us.”_

Oxygen suddenly felt thin, too hard to breathe as he felt caught between the sensation of falling back asleep and being kept awake by whispering voices. He fought to inhale, fought to heave a breath of air in his chest. All that came out was a whimper, soft and broken, cutting through nearly every other noise around him.

Footsteps pounded on the ground, followed by a sharp, _“_ _Outside. Now.”_

It was the last thing he heard, accompanied by the click of a door. It wasn’t hard to fall asleep after that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Clarity came to Peter in the form of a deep breath, the type that made his ribs swell and his chest heave up with great force. What air entered through his nose was cool, albeit strongly artificial, while his mouth took in a lungful of what smelt oddly similar to May’s first-aid kit.

 _Hospital,_ he deduced.

Peter frowned. He was in a hospital? At least that’s what it looked like, his eyelids fluttering open, looking around at his surroundings with a great deal of confusion. It was too nice to be a hospital — not any hospital he’d been in, anyway.

Yet the wires and catheters weighing down his arms along with the multitude of monitor pads sticking to his chest told him it was, fancy or not. And it was — fancy that is, and rather large. A quick cursory glance and he could see it was about the size of May’s living room, spacious enough to fit a whole crowd if called for. Wherever he was, it certainly wasn’t Metro General.

Peter kept looking around, though he could feel his eyes at half-mast, heavy weighted with fatigue. On the wall to his right were curtains, pulled tightly to block the exposed glass windows. Even so, he could make out a ray of light seeping through the edges, the kind of illumination that said morning sunrise. Orange and yellow mixed together and cut into the room through a thin, sharp line escaping from where the curtain ended. The blended colors shinned on the floor and across the occupants nearby.

Occupants? Peter had to blink more than once to clear his sight of cobwebs, bleary-eyed and nauseated, to understand what he saw across the room.

Asleep in a recliner, huddled in a tight ball and looking smaller than ever was his Aunt May. She was still wearing her over-sized and worn-out blue cardigan, though it was barely visible beneath the thin white sheet she had curled up with. A pillow laid behind her head, crooked, and her purse laid split on the floor below. If he squinted hard enough, he could make out the _Shout Wipe-and-Go’s_ that littered the ground. She never left the apartment without them.

Not far away from her was a plush cot, close to the wall and near the window. The copper-colored light beaming in through the smallest crack landed directly across the person who slept on the makeshift bed. They had their arm covering their eyes to keep it at bay. With no blanket covering them, Peter could make out the pillow between their knees, and if he didn’t know better he’d say the wrapper to one of May’s _Shout Wipe-and-Go’s_ laid nearby his pants.

That’s when Peter recognized the person as Mr. Stark, lacking the usual scent of motor oil and titanium alloy metal that he’d normally be able to sniff out from miles away. The realization hit him just as the sound of a toilet flushing nearby rang in his ears, distantly muffled behind a closed door.

Letting his head roll the other way was a slow and painful process. It felt like his skull had been replaced with a bowling ball, much too heavy to move, every inch he strained to achieve leaving him panting. By the time he managed to look the other way, the door to what he assumed was the restroom opened up, revealing a tall — and very surprised — ginger-haired woman.

“Hi, Peter,” she greeted quietly, holding a pair of black high-heels in one hand while the other discarded a used paper towel.

Peter watched with weary eyes as she walked up to him, her skin-toned ballerina socks smothering the sound of her footsteps.

“...ms. potts…?” Peter barely mumbled, positive his lips had barely even parted in the first place.

Pepper sat down in the armchair next to his bed, offering the warmest smile he’d ever seen in his young life. While the room may have been kept dark, there was just enough light that his overly-sensitive vision could see the crinkle to her eyes, crisp kindness in her grin. It forged a blossom of comfort in his chest.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” her voice was nothing more than a whisper, “I’m actually on my way out right now.”

Peter weakly shook his head. “...you don’t...have to le’ve...” His voice was lower than hers, though not on purpose like she spoke. Rather he felt too weak to muster the strength for his words to hold stance on their own, using each exhale of breath for what he needed to say. Multitasking at it’s finest.

Pepper’s smile grew softer, melting. “Unfortunately I do, sweetheart. There’s a shareholders meeting for SI I’ve gotta attend, especially with our chairman currently pe-occupied.”

She gave him a charming wink, her head tilting in the direction where the two adults slept, blissfully unaware to the conversation taking place.

Peter barely managed to flicker his eyes in that direction. He was too tired to move his head again, slightly worried he wouldn’t be able to look back if he did. The silence from May hadn’t concerned him. She was always a quiet sleeper, her tossing-and-turning the worst habit he’d ever have to deal with at home.

Mr. Stark, on the other hand, was breathing heavy in his sleep. He didn’t snore, rather huffed each exhale from his chest instead. Peter had only ever seen him sleep a few times, and even then wondered if it was truly, actually sleep. He was always stiff as a board, never relaxed, quick to wake at the slightest of noise.

The man sleeping on the cot looked as if an earthquake wouldn’t wake him up.

“...is...mr. s’ark okay?” Peter’s voice was so quiet that he swore his own heartbeat overtook it, _thumpthumpthump_ much louder than his attempt at formulating a simple question. He didn’t understand how Pepper could hear him, and yet she did, going so far as to chuckle with delicate grace at his question.

“Of course he is,” she answered, the hand not holding her shoes going to rest next to his on the bed. She didn’t touch him but was close enough he could feel the heat radiate off her skin. “He’s just been worried silly about you. Here, let me wake him up —”

“No, no...let...let him sl’ep.” Peter found himself breathless after a few words, all his strength poured into keeping his eyes mildly open. “He never...never sleeps.”

Pepper chuckled again, the kind that was kept low and in her throat. It was odd that of all things in the room, her restrained laugh was what made Peter realize the precautions everyone had been taking around him. From her lack of shoes to Mr. Stark’s odorless scent. Even the machines he had been hooked up to were silent, covered with sheets that blocked out any artificial light.

Knowing that he was being taken care of in such a specific way...it made him feel protected, cherished, grounded. It was far from the feeling of hopelessness as he felt his body — consciousnesses — plummet endlessly in a free fall, suspended in the air with no ground in sight.

This...this was nice.

“I’m putting your call button right next to you, Peter,” Pepper softly interrupted his runaway train of thoughts, the mattress dipping low with the weight of a bulky remote. “If you need anything, you press —”

“—wha hap’end?”

His eyes found hers and for a second, there wasn’t enough light to see what she was thinking. Though her blue irises seemed noticeably taken aback by his question, she somehow looked unsurprised all the same.

She let her hand sit back in her lap with a sympathetic smile. “You hit your head, honey.”

Peter blinked, eyelashes rubbing crust from the corner of his eyes. That sounded familiar.

“How?”

The was a pause. Pepper’s light-haired brows knitted together tightly with a look Peter was all too familiar with. Hesitation.

It was the same look Peter would give May when she heard him crawl in his bedroom window past curfew and, at seeing the peppered bruises across his body, would ask if he was okay. He’d hesitate to answer, just as Pepper hesitated to answer now.

But then she smiled again, her cheeks rising up in a way that made her freckles stand out.

“Heat lightning,” she explained with a simplicity that couldn’t be, because Peter seemed more confused than he had been before. “Tony said it struck your web-line when you were swinging mid-air, burned up the webbing and the electricity jammed your shooters. It was truly a fluke if we’ve ever seen one before. He’s been working non-stop on a new prototype since, saying — and I quote — _h_ _e falls again and there won’t be_ _anyone_ _to blame expect his short attention span_.”

Pepper’s explanation didn’t seem to register at first. Maybe it was her smile that threw him for a loop, her body language telling him something different than her words. It reminded him of when he was a kid, when he’d fall down and scrap his knees only to look to the surrounding adults to see how he should react. And they’d all smile, as if telling him —

“Don’t worry, Peter,” Pepper said, “you’re going to be okay.”

Was he? A hand that felt way too heavy to be his, yet very much so was, reached up for his eyes and rubbed at them tiredly. The bulky pulse ox monitor clipped to his finger got in the way and he gave up before he could scrub hard enough to see dancing stars.

“I fell?” he asked, voice thin, tongue heavy in his mouth.

Pepper nodded. “Nothing you could have done to prevent it, dear. We’re just happy you’re here and getting better.”

Peter stared up at the ceiling, absorbing the information. And for once in a long while, he actually felt like he was absorbing it, retaining it. To the point where it hurt, like there wasn’t enough space in his mind and things were being moved around to accommodate the new knowledge.

His hand fell listlessly back onto his lap, soft cotton of the blanket over top him grazing against his palm. The strain when looking back at Pepper was immense, every centimeter that his eyes moved tugging painfully at the nerves connecting to his brain.

She seemed to notice his pain, her smile becoming less forced and more sad, almost distressed.

“...ev’ryone else...kay?” Peter murmured, a whisper between his teeth.

“Everyone’s _fine_ ,” she reassured, the tone giving her away. Disbelief laced her words in a way that made Peter think she was shocked he’d even ask such a thing. And maybe she was, he couldn’t really tell, not with a million things floating around in his dusty, dazed mind.

As Pepper stood from her chair, he fought against the bricks that had suddenly attached to his eyelashes, threatening to pull his eyelids shut.

“Can I get you anything before I leave, Peter?” she asked, her two high-heels still in one hand while the other rested near his forearm.

Right, Ms. Potts need to leave. Peter let his tongue run over his bottom lip, moistening the cracked skin the best he could. It was a sloppy attempt at best, getting some of his cheek wet in the process.

“Another...another blanket for my aunt?” Peter’s voice cracked at the edges. “...she gets...she gets cold...easily.”

His eyes were closing faster than he could get the words out, a losing battle that would normally hold his pride at stake. Right now, he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Not with the pillow behind his head, feathers soft as a cloud against his neck. _Not a cloud...clouds...water vapor..._

Pepper’s smile was the last thing he saw before giving up entirely. It was a nice sight to close on, grin so large her teeth lit up the room. When he wasn’t looking — more entertained by the dancing stars beneath his closed lids — she gently ran her fingers through his hair, long nails delicately scratching against his scalp. It wasn’t rough, despite his sensation being heightened. The feel was soothing, consoling.

“I’ll tell the nurses to bring one in.” She brushed back a few strands that had fallen across his forehead, working them to stay that way. “But do _you_ need anything, Peter?”

The question threw him for a loop. Perhaps it was because in the span of only a few seconds he had already started to fall asleep, dangling between the disconnect of reality and the entrance to his dreams. Pepper stood by patiently for his answer, and he knew only because of her touch, slowly running her fingers through his hair.

Faintness washed over him, his vocal cords barely producing the sound of, “...mhmm...ice cream...”

Pepper’s chuckle came with the gentlest pat to his head.

“Alright, I’ll let Tony know when he wakes up.” Her hand retracted and he could have sworn he felt a buttery kiss placed softly against his forehead, near his hairline and against the wires littering his scalp. It came almost as fast as it went away. “Sweet dreams, kid.”

He had drifted off before the door even closed shut, its audible _click_ never an existence for him, never a sound for him to hear. By the time Pepper had left, he was already dreaming. And this time, he never touched the skies, never soared near a plane, never fell from a height he couldn't be rescued from.

Peter finally dreamed of land, of sitting cross-legged on the beaches of Coney Island. He dreamed of watching the amusement park ahead of him with great interest, with the sands that had once been out of his reach now between his toes, with a smile beaming on his face and melting ice cream stick in hand.

And he took a bite of that red and yellow Popsicle with delicious satisfaction, the taste on his tongue sending ripples of happiness through his entire being.

It tasted like cherry.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my heart is sorta aching for this corner of the fandom right now and I'm just in the mood to please. Yell at me if there's anything specific you want to see in the final chapter and I'll do what I can.


	4. Forget and Forgive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newton’s Law.
> 
> Tony had been spending a good amount of time lately thinking about it. Specifically, Newton’s first law. The reason why didn’t go over his head—a body will remain at rest, or moving at constant velocity, unless it is acted on by an unbalanced force. He didn’t need an outside source to psychoanalyze why that, of all things, had been on his mind.
> 
> “We need to have a team meeting,” Steve said.
> 
> Tony looked up to the kitchen ceiling, willing himself to count to ten before responding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for your support in this fic. I really dropped the ball on responding to a lot of you guys; life has gotten rough lately. But please, please, please know that I love you all and so greatly appreciate your wonderful, amazing feedback. Each and every one of you are amazing souls and I hope you enjoy this final chapter.

The last time Peter had been in the hospital, it was to have a tonsillectomy. He had been eleven, it took place at Metro General, and much to his discontent he hadn’t even stayed overnight — discontent because he had been told there would be a reward of unlimited ice cream from the nurses for his corporation in such a disgusting procedure.

This was...well, this was different. For starters, Ben wasn’t here joking about how the doctors were going to sell his shriveled up, infected tonsils to the black market. There was no raw, burning pain when he swallowed and despite never having his throat surgically messed with this time around, he had still been gifted the reward of ice cream. So overall, he couldn’t complain too much.

It was mostly grappling with the reality of the situation that threw him for a loop. One moment he was patrolling on a Friday night, the next he was waking up in the Avenger’s compound being taken care of by doctors and nurses. Discovering the extent of damage done from a failed webswing fall turned out to be more _shocking_ than Peter expected.

And yes, he made sure to tell May that pun and yes, it was completely worth the exasperated sigh she gave him in return.

“Peter, sweetie, they drilled a hole in your head. They put you in a medically induced coma while they fought to lower the pressure in your skull. A normal person would have died from this before ever getting medical treatment,” she had explained, her words heavy with exhaustion. “Can you maybe save the puns for after some time has gone by?”

It turned out two weeks wasn’t enough time passed for him to crack jokes yet. Peter made a mental note _not_ to make light of the situation everyone was still so high-strung about, and tried to retrain that mental note as the days went on. It was harder than he expected, what with the head trauma and all.

Still, of everything he had been told — and told and told again and again — it was one fact, in particular, he seemed most stuck on.

“I can’t believe I got to ride in a helicopter and I don’t remember any of it.”

Tony’s eye-roll could be seen from across the hospital room, an impressive feat considering the square footage they sat in. His attention was otherwise focused on the side table cart in front of him, the one normally kept around for Peter to use when he was eating.

Instead, Peter currently played with the edges of his lunch tray sitting in his lap while Tony fiddled with scraps of metal, bolts, and screws all scattered out in front of him.

“I can’t believe you wet your pants on Captain America’s living room floor and keep harping about a damn helicopter ride.” He looked up from the disassembled metal in his hands, wagging his screwdriver in Peter’s direction. “I had to foot the steam cleaning bill for that, you know.”

Peter raised both hands in the air, bringing with him wires and IV catheters that still confined him to machines nearby.

“Okay, okay, point made. Seizure, not good. I get it.” His words were short and clipped, reminded of a moment that he refused to think about despite never having remembered it in the first place. It took all he had to keep the hot red blush spreading across his cheeks to a mild and modest pink. “Still kinda uncool that I missed the helicopter ride though.”

Tony dropped his screwdriver with a _clang._ “I swear to God —”

“Actually, you know what I really can’t believe?” Peter interrupted. “Lightning. _Lightning,_ dude.”

“Yeah, _dude,_ ” Tony mocked him, brows knitted tightly together as he focused on his project at hand. “Apparently we now need to factor in the extremely improbable when making upgrades to your suit. Go figure.”

Peter frowned and sighed, picking at the edges of his turkey sandwich that he hadn’t mustered the will to finish eating.

“That’s Parker Luck for you,” he muttered under his breath.

“Parker luck, bad luck, doesn’t matter. These puppies?” Tony lifted the pieces of metal for him to see, a mere skeleton of what used to be his web-shooters. “They’ll now be able to withstand nearly three hundred kilovolts of electricity before ever considering jamming up again.”

Peter leaned a little further forward to see, his smile giving away the excitement he tried — and failed — to contain. If there was one thing that never ceased to brighten his day, it was working science with Mr. Stark. Although this was more Mr. Stark working while he sat back and watched, but still. Totally awesome.

“What if we lined the inner central spinneret mechanism with rubber?” Peter asked, earning a look from Tony. “That way if a higher voltage does bypass the telfon turbine, it’ll be grounded out before it can jam the nozzle spray.”

There was a pause as Tony thought it over, the tip of his tool tapping incessantly on the surface below him. His grin grew wider as the seconds went on.

“Smart thinking, Mr. Parker.” Tony wagged the screwdriver at him again, this time with much more enthusiasm.“See? That big brain of yours will be back online in no time.”

The moment of encouragement had Peter grinning ear to ear, a sense of pride he hadn’t feel in a while now coursing through him. It felt nice, knowing in spite of all that happened he wasn’t completely incompetent, that he wasn’t totally self-sufficient on others.

Hearing Mr. Stark say he’d be better _‘in no time’_ actually gave him the surge of energy to finish eating his lunch, stuffing the remains of his sandwich in his mouth with an eagerness to get back on his feet — and in the skies as Spider-man, not that he’d mention that around those who still felt antsy over the whole ordeal.

Peter had just wished someone would’ve told him _‘in no time’_ actually meant a hella lot more time than Spider-man was ever used to.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was another week before Peter was officially discharged out of the med-bay. Three weeks in total and the small patch of hair they’d shaved off from the side of his head had almost completely grown back by that time.

“Stop playing with it!” Tony barked, swatting Peter’s hand away from his own head.

Peter, sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, shot him a look. His eyes were squinting, lips pouting, and Tony rolled his eyes hard enough he thought they might pop right out of his sockets.

Bruce, standing in front of them both, forced an awkward smile.

“So...right,” he looked down at the clipboard in his hands. “As I was saying. Uh, nausea and dizziness are going to be normal for a while, and you might even feel like you’re a fugue state. If it doesn’t subside in a few more days let us know — you have my phone number, right?” Bruce looked up and Tony glared at him like he’d grown five heads. “Of course, right. So we went over nausea, dizziness — oh, and I know this one’s going to be hard but you’re going to need to refrain from any electrical devices for a while, especially screens. Computers, phones, all that. It’s best that for now you try and limit any triggers that can bring on a bout of headaches.”

“Aw, man.” Peter’s shoulders slumped dramatically with the sheer disappointment only a teenager could have.

“You’ll survive,” Tony mumbled, tossing Peter the crisp, flannel button-down to wear over his short-sleeved t-shirt. The kid seemed to be taking an entire decade in getting dressed, most likely still absolutely star-struck talking with Doctor Banner.

Tony couldn’t understand why, especially as he watched Bruce fumbled with his clipboard, pen, and the small bottle of pills that were dangerously closing to rolling onto the floor. It had Tony wondering who’d win at being the bigger klutz, Banner or the kid. He may or may not have been considering putting that to test one day in the near future.

“This will help you with any migraines you might get, take one as soon as you feel it coming on.” He handed Peter the orange bottle while lifting the other for display. “This one will help with nausea. They’ll both make you sleepy so make sure you don’t operate any vehicles while on them.”

Tony arched an eyebrow high while Peter furrowed his, confusion clear as day, fingers stopping midway buttoning up his shirt.

Bruce gave a light, tense chuckle. “That was uh, that was a little joke. Since you’re...you know...” he cleared his throat multiple times, “...so young.”

“Yeah yeah, we get it. As if I haven’t been hounded enough by the others.” Tony eyed Peter as he finished buttoning the last of his shirt. “Ready to head down to your quarters, bud?”

Peter whipped his head over to Tony at an alarming rate. “Quarters? I thought I was going home?”

There was a strained pause that followed. Tony looked at Bruce, who looked back at him, until they both looked over at Peter.

“You…?” Tony trailed off, clearly as confused as Peter was. The kid’s eyes flickered between the two of them with hesitation, as if he was waiting for a punch line that never came.

“I’m not going back to Queens?”

Tony gave him a quizzical and slightly concerned look. “Peter, we talked about this. You’re staying here for the week, while the city wraps up the construction work outside your apartment.”

There was no doubt about it that Peter one hundred percent did _not_ remember any of what they spoke about, despite Tony having told him day after day that he paid the city a hefty hand of money to finish the sidewalk work as soon as possible. So what came out of his mouth next was clearly a bald-faced lie if Tony had ever heard one before.

“Yeah, yeah, right...of course, I remember now.”

If Bruce’s frown didn’t go on to show his pity for Peter, the hand he placed sympathetically on the kid’s shoulder did.

“It’s okay, Pete. Confusion is also very common. Give it time and just...be patient, okay?”

“Great.” Peter rolled his eyes as he hopped down from the bed with fidgety agitation. “Any pill I can take for that?”

Tony quietly yet noticeably shuffled across the room to gather the rest of Peter’s belongings. Bruce gave him a heated side-glare as he did, left to deal with the situation he was not equipped to handle. Tony knew full well it would later result in a lecture of _‘I’m not a medical doctor!’_ and _‘When I said I was willing to help with the team again this_ _was_ _not what I_ _meant_ _!’_

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Bruce insisted, offering a weak smile. “I mean, I don’t want to sound like a broken record —”

“But you do,” Tony interrupted, swinging Peter’s book-bag over his shoulder.

Bruce shot him a look before turning back to Peter. “It’s quite a feat that you’re even up and about right now. Most...wouldn’t have that opportunity, you know.”

Peter did his best to offer a smile in return. It felt as forced as he was sure it looked, pulling at his cheeks like play-dough, never becoming wide enough to even show his teeth.

“Yeah, right. Feat.” He nodded, the bright spark he’d normally have all but gone. “Sure. Of course. Thanks, Doctor Banner.”

“Alright, let’s go,” Tony urged, gesturing to the open doorway. “Doctor Banner has much more important work to do with his seven PhD’s, am I right, Brucey Bear?”

Peter had already begun walking out with his back turned, keeping him from witnessing the tight-lipped expression Bruce had.

“You’re welcome, Tony,” he bit back with sarcasm, his tone much sweeter when he finished with, “Feel better, Pete.”

Peter was already gone before he could give a response.

There was no denying that he dragged his feet all the way to his quarters, turning a ten-minute walk into something much longer. And he was sure both Mr. Stark and Doctor Banner could tell something was up with him.

He didn’t care. There was no incentive for him to hide it. Because while everyone insisted on telling him how lucky he was, telling him it was _‘a feat’_ to be up and about, it sure as hell didn’t feel like one.

Once he had a moment of privacy in his quarters, he collapsed into his bed with a frustrated groan, hiding it beneath the stuffing of his pillow. He couldn’t even text May to tell her he’d been oddly looking forward to her burnt meatloaf tonight.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Newton’s Law.

 

Tony had been spending a good amount of time lately thinking about it. Specifically, Newton’s first law. The reason why didn’t go over his head— _a body will remain at rest, or moving at constant velocity, unless it is acted on by an unbalanced force._ He didn’t need an outside source to psychoanalyze why that, of all things, had been on his mind.

“We need to have a team meeting,” Steve said.

Tony looked up to the kitchen ceiling, willing himself to count to ten before responding. Suddenly, he found himself thinking about Newton’s third law. _For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction._ Of course, this would normally apply to things like jumping off a rowing boat. The same force used in diving towards the water would be used to make the boat move backwards. It was a lesson in force; it always came in pairs.

However, he couldn’t help but notice that since getting Rogers involved in Spider-man’s life — Peter Parker’s life, specifically — there had been a unique reaction. One heavily opposite to the force Tony had been trying to apply to Peter’s life. That being, _keep the kid away from the Avengers line of duty_.

Steve followed up with, “I think it’s time we introduce Peter to the team.”

Tony bit his tongue hard enough to spark a wave of pain. Seven, eight, nine —

“No,” he curtly responded, silencing the colorful words he wanted to add by taking a long, loud sip of his coffee. “But hey, feel free to have your meeting, don’t let me be the roadblock to your success. Pencil me in for sometime next year.”

Steve’s sigh was like nails on a chalkboard for Tony. One simple breath of air had so much goddamn emotion in it — it just wasn’t physically possible for a human being to sound _that_ disappointed _._ The super-solider serum must have done that for him as well.

“Tony...” Steve started, his voice like steel. “We’ve been putting this off for months now.”

Tony eyed the kitchen cabinets to his right, wondering how much Baileys Irish Cream he could dump into his coffee before God’s Righteous Man noticed. Just the thought of hearing him lecture on about it wasn’t worth the trouble.

Newton needed a fourth law — _no matter how big the building someone lives in, they will eventually bump into the person they_ _were_ _trying_ _to avoid._

“So what’s the harm in a few more months then?” Tony asked, gesturing his mug towards Steve, the man sitting on a bar stool across from him at the kitchen island.

“We haven’t all gotten together and discussed things, not since the pardon,” he answered, hands folded neatly in front of him, fingers intertwined and resting against his knuckles.

“You mean since you and the Scooby gang moved back in,” Tony smugly corrected.

Steve paused, a heavy beat falling between them that clouded the air. When he finally answered it was short, clipped. Burdened.

“That goes hand in hand, yes.”

Tony set his coffee mug down on the kitchen island that separated them. The _clank_ was more forceful than he intended, echoing the large and practically empty room. It also spoke volumes to his frustration, the type of irritation childish practices wouldn’t be able to contain much longer.

“What’s there to really talk about, Rogers?” Tony folded his arms over his chest. “Are your showers too cold, was the water at your shitty run-down motels hotter?”

“This isn’t —”

“Blame Pepper, she takes fifty-five-minute showers in the morning.” Tony threw one arm in the air, waving his hand around in a pace faster than he actually spoke. “Besides, you’re between here and Brooklyn throughout the week anyhow. Is the Shady Acres Retirement home treating you that badly?”

“Tony, this isn’t about —”

“You’re embarrassed to tell the team, I get it. But there’s nothing to be ashamed about with hospice care. Bruce will take good care of you here.”

“Knock it off with the jokes, Tony!” Steve stressed, his shout tightly contained. “This isn’t about me, this is about everyone getting on the same page —”

“Shit.”

The voice came from the doorway, weak and practically inaudible under their bickering. Yet they both managed to hear it loud and clear.

Steve spun around on his stool whereas Tony shot his head up and slightly to the left, eyeing the space right where Peter stood.

His hair was sticking up in five different directions and the _‘May The (F=m dv/dt) Be With You’_ t-shirt, albeit wrinkled, stood out like a sore thumb among the contemporary design of the kitchen. It didn’t help that the over-sized Hello Kitty pajama pants dragging on the ground made him look easily five years younger.

“I mean...shoot.” The bob in his throat could be seen as he gulped hard, going on to mutter under his breath, “shit.”

The last time Tony had seen such a look of shock, it was from the deer he nearly hit with his car a few months back, frozen in the headlights of his Audi. He fought not to roll his eyes at the reminder of Newton’s first law, popping back into his head again.

“You okay, son?” Steve was quick to ask, concern lacing his words. “You’re looking a little pale there.”

Peter stood frozen in the doorway, eyes flickering back and forth between the two men with nerves so wound tight the tension could be felt across the room.

“I, uh...” His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. “I’m sorry, I uh...”

It didn’t take much for Tony to figure out something was amiss. The kid was awkward, sure, but never on this level of total ineptitude. He looked to be a millisecond away from running full-speed back to wherever he came from. Judging from the attire, Tony would have to say he wandered straight from his quarters.

“Pete?” he pressed, already having walked out from behind the kitchen island. A good five steps later and he decided to stay where he was, unsure about moving any closer just as Peter was unsure about moving further into the room.

“I...” Peter shook his head, the smallest movement seemingly speaking volumes to Tony. Which was a good thing, considering the fact that his next words were spoken so quietly they nearly bypassed Tony’s ears altogether. “I don’t remember where I was going.”

Steve looked over his shoulder to Tony, one eyebrow arched high, the other dipped low, the frown on his face etching a total of seven lines into his cheeks — it was his infamous _‘Should I call for a med team?’_ look.

Personally, Tony hated that look. Despised it. Probably because he always saw it directed towards everyone _but_ him, as he was typically the person they’d be calling the med team on.

By the time Tony gave Steve an answer, one curt shake of his head telling the Captain not to interfere, Peter had begun fidgeting with the bottom seam of his t-shirt. Tony had a feeling that if he pulled any harder the entire thing would come undone, becoming one giant ball of thread littering the sleek kitchen floors.

He took pity on the kid.

“That’s okay. Happens to the best of us,” Tony finally said, his flippant words throwing a line into the churning sea. “You can eat since you’re here. Come come, take a seat.”

Tony had to wave him over twice before he took the hint, and even then he had to follow up with a _‘don’t make me ask twice’_ stare that finally had Peter scampering into the kitchen. There was only pause once his sock-clad feet got closer to the two adults, and looking at his surroundings, he could see there were only two bar stools sitting at the island. One of which was occupied.

With what looked to be great hesitation, Peter pulled the second stool out — making the legs screech against the marble flooring in the process — and sat down next to Steve.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt...” he trailed off, chewing his bottom lip and trying not to make eye contact with the insanely muscular man next to him.

Peter liked to think he had put on a good amount of mass since the spider bite — actually, that wasn’t up for debate, he most certainly did. But still, sitting next to Captain America managed to make him feel as small as the coffee grounds in the bottom of the mug placed in front of him.

Steve turned his head and smiled softly. “You didn’t interrupt anything.”

“That’s a lie,” Tony snapped, spinning on his heels to wag a spatula at Steve. “Don’t take him for stupid.”

Before Steve could even open his mouth to retort, Tony redirected his focus to Peter. “Whacha want? Eggs? Omelet? I make a mean omelet, you know. Might take me a couple tries but—”

“Whatever’s easiest is fine, thank you, sir,” Peter quietly answered, folding his arms over the table and letting his chin rest again them.

Tony paused, taking the moment to study the kid. It was amazing how in a few seconds he could go from looking nine years old to suddenly forty-six, the stress lines digging into his forehead telling him everything he needed to know. There was a dullness that suddenly covered his every move, even his breathing somehow lacking the normal energy he had bubbling within.

“Coming right up,” Tony tried to match his volume with Peter’s, quiet, low.

A good amount of silence followed, mixed in with the occasional rustle from Tony digging through drawers and cabinets. Minutes passed until Peter finally straightened from his slouched position, turning to look at Steve with a clumsy, forced smile.

“Thank you, uh...Mr. Rogers. For, you know. Saving my life and all,” Peter didn’t wait for a response before turning away, the embarrassment that followed sinking deep into his bones as he muttered, “Sorry about your floor.”

Though Steve may not have heard all of what Peter had to say — he did, of course, super-solider serum effective as ever — he smiled nonetheless, his grin wide and ten times steadier than what Peter offered at the moment.

“Of course, champ. Anything I can do to help.” His hand briefly hovered over Peter’s shoulder before he decided to keep it at his side, reluctant to offer touch knowing full well what turmoil the kid’s senses put him through earlier. He instead went on to ask, “You often patrol near Brooklyn?”

Peter stared at him with an openly blank expression, seemingly struggling to process what he knew should have been an easy answer. Problem was, for a fleeting second he was confused at the question. Then he remembered the story — they found him near Brooklyn, they took him _to_ Brooklyn, all where Captain America saved his bad-luck-ridden butt.

“Uh, sometimes,” he answered, scrubbing one hand along his forehead. “Depends.”

Peter honestly couldn’t remember why he had been in the area that night. Mr. Stark said something about a mugging, which sounded about right for him. Second-hand information was the best he seemed to be getting at putting together the missing pieces, seeing as a chunk of his memory leaked out with the fluid they drained from his head shortly after.

He wondered if he could use that excuse when he returned to school. It would help him squeeze by in quantitative literacy class, for sure.

“I just moved back there, you know,” Steve cut through his runaway thoughts. “Pretty much a block away if you ever need anything.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Peter’s acknowledgment was muffled in the palm of his hands. His two fingers were busy pinching the bridge of his nose, so tight he finally had to stop once he realized he might very well break the bone beneath his throbbing skin.

“Peter, please,” Steve stressed, finally laying that hand on his shoulder. “Call me Steve.”

Peter forced a grin, jaw clenched too tight to show his teeth. He didn’t look Steve’s way despite what he knew was supposed to be a comforting touch, too preoccupied staring at the granite stone countertop below him.

“If you’re ever in the neighborhood again, I know of a great —”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Rog — Steve,” Peter finally cut in, apologetic even in his moment of brass. “I’m just...I don’t really want to talk right now?”

The moment was so unexpected that even Tony turned around, noticeably surprised, a butter knife in hand and mid-swipe on a piece of bread. It was only when Steve’s eyes flitted towards him did he turn back away, pretending that piece of bread was the most interesting thing in the entire universe.

Tony didn’t want to feel embarrassed for the good Cap, but at the same time, he did make it extremely known that Peter wasn’t sure what to think of the whole _‘Avengers living back together after nearly tearing each other apart in a Wal-mart parking lot’_ ordeal.

Though Tony would express with his dying breath that Rogers was the dumbest of all asses out there, he also had to admit the man was intelligent as hell. It was a painful in-between to deal with on a daily basis, usually resulting in a lot of intelligent, dumb-ass decisions.

So deciding to leave the kitchen was probably one of his smarter, finer moments, sad-puppy dog face aside.

“That’s okay, no problem at all. I actually was on my way out.” Steve pushed his stool back and stood up tall, giving Peter’s shoulder a firm pat before letting go. “I’ll see you around, Queens.”

Peter offered a wave goodbye, not that the man was even looking in his direction at that point. For what it was worth, Captain — Mr. Rogers — _Steve,_ seemed to hide his feelings well.

But call it intuition, Peter could tell he was at least slightly upset over the encounter. One percent, at the very most, which was about one percent too much for him _not_ to feel guilty about.

With a dramatic mix of a groan-whine, Peter laid his head down into his folded arms, letting the tip of his nose rest against the gray granite countertop. He didn’t even see the plate of food Tony pushed towards him.

“Wow,” Tony drawled out, “didn’t know you were a venomous spider, Underoo’s.”

Peter groaned again. “I’m not. I just...”

There was a tap on his hand, followed by two more when he failed to notice the fist. Peter looked up from his makeshift birds nest hole in his arms, assuming his words had finally become so muffled not even Mr. Stark could understand them.

Only instead, once lifting his head up, Peter was greeted with the sight of glasses. Black framed, wire-rimmed, _insanely_ high-tech glasses. The sleek lenses were already set to pitch black, darker than any pair of sunglasses he’d ever seen before.

“Here.” Tony set them down next to the plate of food, using one finger to push them closer towards Peter. “Take ‘em.”

Peter looked between Tony and the glasses with hesitation, the deep uncertainty somehow making his head hurt even more. These weren’t just any ol’ pair of cheap sunglasses that he pulled off the rack at Walgreen’s. They were so much more. They were Mr. Stark’s glasses. Iron Man’s glasses. After all —

“Kid,” Tony impatiently stressed, “it’s a loaner, just take them already.”

Peter finally made a move to grab hold of the device, using slow, cautious movements. It was a damn snails pace, and Tony’s eyes rolled so far back in his head it hurt. Peter gripped the temple tips with his fingers and slid them onto his face in a way that made Tony wonder if the kid had ever even used a pair of glasses before.

“How’d you —”

“You were squinting hard enough to give yourself crows feet,” Tony casually answered, butter knife pointing to his head. “Your mechanics still misfiring?”

The sheer relief at seeing the lights around him dim to a manageable glow had Peter slouching in his chair, the glasses immediately going to work at handling his enhanced and overly sensitive eyes.

“It comes and goes,” he answered, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck while the other pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose. Slightly too big for his smaller face, but they’d make due. Anything was better than the dialed-to-thirty senses he had been wrestling with lately.

Tony hummed, the type of noise that didn’t sound too convinced. Peter couldn’t be bothered to care, the pounding in his head was finally quieting down and the aura’s floating in his vision had packed their bags and gone on vacation.

“We still have that sensory deprivation room if you need it — your own personal quiet chamber,” Tony reminded him, heading across the way to the kitchen sink.

Peter shook his head, a little more animation returning to his movements. “I’m good, Mr. Stark, thanks.”

Tony let out another hum, the same sound that said _‘Don’t buy it, but I won’t push it.’_ He backed it up by not saying anything else.

Peter was appreciative for it. Though he was usually one to love background noise — always having music playing through his earbuds or just listening to people in the city go through their daily motions — it seemed lately moments of true quietness had become far and few in-between. As much as he had missed May these past few days, he couldn’t imagine being back in Queens right now. The construction workers outside their apartment were about as obnoxious as they could get, and that was _before_ he had managed to rattle his brain inside his skull.

Tony was quiet as he went on to wash the knife he had used, the water stream from the faucet on low, his scrubbing barely audible. Peter straightened in his chair, deciding to eat whatever the man had fixed him despite the nausea creeping up in his stomach. It would have been impolite if he didn’t, after all, and he already felt bad for behaving rudely to Cap.

That’s when he looked down at the plate, frowning.

“Did you...” Peter looked up and over to the kitchen sink where Tony stood, “did you only make me toast?”

Tony craned his head over his shoulder, pausing briefly before grabbing a towel to dry off the knife.

“You said to make whatever is easiest,” he defended. “Also that isn’t _just_ toast. There’s butter on there too.”

Peter chuckled, his grin wide, steady, showing the entire top and bottom rows of his teeth. He took a large bite of his toast, Mr. Stark’s glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he did.

 

* * *

 

 

Blaring music throughout his workshop while creating the latest world-changing inventions had become customary for Tony. It wasn’t AC/DC unless it was blasted at the loudest volume possible, loud enough to make even the floors shake from the power of the bass.

Tony worked in silence tonight, pushing his chair away from his desk and wheeling across the room to another table. It was the only noise that filled his workshop, the wheels on his chair squealing across the floor and the hum of his technology whirring through the walls.

He waved his hand across the table, bringing up a large holographic diagram in the process.

“What’s the current resistance in the cable structure?”

There was a beat, followed by, **“** **The embed wiring throughout the suit stands at two point sixty-eight kilovolts.”**

Tony swiped images. The blue glow of the hologram illuminated his face, sinking deep into the stress lines around his eyes.

“And the current charge to the mainframe?”

Another beat.

“ **One point forty-five kilovolts.”** The voice rang through the workshop ceiling, bouncing off the walls around him. Tony closed his eyes, dejected, holding back a sigh deep enough to rupture his lungs. **“Unfortunately the higher you draw electrical resistance to the suit composition, the further the CP.U and A.I will be rendered inept.”**

He sat in defeat for a moment, barely a few seconds, before shaking his head and wheeling his chair away.

“Keep running calculations,” Tony insisted, going to type ferociously at one of his many computer consoles. His fingers never made a sound, holographic keys being pressed only by the force of air. “The electrical resistance to his suit isn’t strong enough. Lightning struck his web-shooter this time, can’t guarantee he’ll get that lucky the next.”

“ **Of course, boss,”** FRIDAY answered, her Irish accent professional as ever. **“Captain Rogers has also requested that I inform you his meeting will be taking place within the hour.”**

Tony could feel his eyelid twitch at the news.

“Fantastic,” he drawled out, sarcasm dripping in his tone. “Feel free to inform him I will _not_ be there and don’t hesitate to remind him I’m providing him and the others free housing while you’re at it.”

There wasn’t a beat this time, rather a full wave of silence. With no response given, Tony turned his focus back on the work ahead of him. FRIDAY was programmed well, she knew when he was irritated or stressed, knew when to leave him be. And honestly, it had become painfully routine that his blood pressure would immediately skyrocket anytime Rogers was mentioned.

It was hard being grateful to a man that constantly annoyed the living shit out of him.

Tony swiped through the holographic diorama’s, each one a different part of the spider-suit, each detailing the tech embed deep within the design. He could see it all with his eyes closed, the images more of a reference at this point than anything else. A distraction.

It was about three weeks ago now that he shook hands with Rogers on the rooftop of his apartment building, expressing gratitude for his help that night — something he still felt, of course. The kid would have been much worse off had the good Captain not lend his helping hand. Tony knew that, he didn’t dispute it.

It was just…

Tony finally let out the sigh that had been holding in, scrubbing a hand down the length of his face. He hadn’t been ready for that, for _this._ Steve finally meeting Peter meant they needed to acknowledge what they had been ignoring for so long now — that Peter was part of something different, a whole other plan, their original plan. It belonged to a different version of them, a version broken after all that _shit_ went down.

He couldn’t help but wonder how different it would have been. If recruiting Peter had been more proper, less rushed. If —

“ **Boss?”** FRIDAY’s voice jolted him back to reality. **“Mr. Parker is currently walking the north wing hallways and appears to be in distress.”**

Tony’s eyes finally broke away from the screens ahead of him, and God help his self-destructive ass, he did the very thing they constantly mocked Rogers for — he looked to the ceiling as he responded.

“Distress? How so?”

“ **He seems to be agitated and emotionally upset,”** FRIDAY explained, sounding a bit too casual for his liking. He’d tweak that later. “ **His vital signs are otherwise within normal range.** **My r** **esearch shows that mood swings are common with head injuries of this nature.** **I believe** **the moment should pass on its own.”**

Tony found himself quirking an eyebrow high into his hairline, needing a second to process what she had said. He and his AI seemed to have a very different perspective on the word _distress._

“Okay, very well then,” Tony’s words were flat as he pulled up more screens from the holographic table below him, designs of webbing and wires littering the wall ahead. “Help the kid back to his room if he got lost. Keep me updated if he wanders someplace he shouldn’t be.”

Blasting music had become such an ingrained habit of his that Tony found himself waiting for FRIDAY to unpause whatever song he had been in the middle of listening to. It took longer than he was proud to admit before he remembered, the silence an indicator that she had nothing else to say.

That was, until,

“ **Boss? Mr. Parker is now crying.”** Call him crazy but Tony could have sworn her voice had a bit more emotion to it this time around. **“He requested** **that** **I not tell you.”**

Tony didn’t hesitate to instruct, “Call him.”

“ **He does not currently have his cell phone on him.”**

 _Shit._ Right, Banner had told him not to use devices with screens. Tony hummed, mildly impressed. If it was him he’d have lasted a few hours without one of his toys before caving in and suffering the consequences. Here the kid was going on days.

Which told him that his _‘I’m fine, really, Mr. Stark’_ crap from the other morning had been just that, a load of crap. Tony waved the spider-suit diagrams away, bringing up something new in the process. Peter’s headaches must have been more persistent than he was letting on, especially if the Gen Z glued-to-his-phone behavior was taking a backseat to all this.

Tony did a quick search of his glasses, the ones he had loaned Peter. The GPS tracker within the device immediately pinged his personal quarters, completely south of where FRIDAY had located him walking around. So much for contacting him that way. Tony pursed his lips tightly together, foot tapping against the floor as he tried to think of a solution.

“What am I supposed to do here, FRI?” he asked. “Bring him a warm glass of milk?”

“ **It is listed here that chocolate milk is one of his favorite beverages. Perhaps it would be wise to —”**

“Rhetorical question,” Tony grumbled, standing from the chair and not bothering to stop the wheels from rolling it gradually across the room. He stretched, cracked his back, and proceeded to run both hands down the length of his face, pulling harshly at his skin.

Peter was _crying._

Tony swore under his breath. Cranky moods he could deal with, but crying? Damn it. He stopped scrubbing at his face and instead tapped the knuckles of his closed fist against his forehead. If there was one thing he didn’t do well, it was crying. Just ask Pepper.

“ **Boss, should I —”**

“I’m on it, I’m on it,” Tony snapped, feet oddly rooted in place for someone who was _‘_ _on it.’_ He forced in a deep breath that he hoped would also bring the self-assurance needed to deal with this situation because — _seriously,_ _damn it_ —this was way out of his element.

He briefly deliberated calling in Pepper to handle it — she was good with this stuff, she had the instincts for this. His instincts had been stripped away the moment Howard threw a Whiskey glass at the wall behind his head when he was six.

No amount of technology could make Tony comfortable with... _this._ In his defense, when he told May that he’d house the kid for a week, he thought that meant leaving him in his room while he played X-box or some nonsense.

With a quick detour planned first, Tony headed out of the workshop, bitterly realizing he should have known better. After all, Peter wasn’t much into video games in the first place. That, and things were never easy when it came to the kid.

 

* * *

 

‘ _North Wing hallways’_ turned out to be the upper, _upper_ north wing side of the building, nearly a twenty-minute walk from Peter’s quarters. It was only at FRIDAY’s advisement did he finally stay put, settling into one of the rec rooms once she told him Tony was on his way.

By the time he got there, Tony was beyond frustrated. For starters, FRIDAY had to ask him multiple times to sit his butt down — an exact quote he gave her to say. Apparently, the little spider-brat kept insisting he was fine — _another lie. On a roll there, Underoo’s_ — and it wasn’t until Tony threatened to take away the suit that he finally listened.

Now, Tony wasn’t planning to actually do that but _Christ_ the fact it came to that point had him seeing red.

Walking up the stairs to the rec room, that red managed to bleed out into a soft white when muffled, wet cries hit his ears. His steps became slower, softer as he took in the sound, and he found himself frozen on the final step leading into the room.

Tony closed his eyes, the darkness beneath his lids not much darker than the room itself.

_Okay, go back to being stubborn, Parker. I can handle stubborn._

Look at that, he was lying now as well. Stubborn or crying, Tony wasn’t sure he could really handle either one. Throwing caution to the wind, he crossed through the pool tables, acoustic and electric guitars scattered about, and followed the snotty-sounding cries to the source.

Peter sat on the floor against one of the red sofa’s, arms wrapped around his knees which were high up against his chest. His back hitched as he cried, his face pressed firmly into his forearms to try and stifle the noise.

Tony stood over him, waiting for him to notice his presence. It didn’t take long, and what few seconds passed he was sure belonged to Peter trying to compose himself. The kid probably heard him coming a mile away — literally.

Peter finally lifted his head, though he refused to look at Tony once he did.

“I—I don’t — I don’t know where I am.” Peter repeatedly wiped the back of his hand against his face. The only light source in the room was dim, barely highlighting the contours of his skin yet the red irritation around his eyes was pronounced. “I don’t know how I got here, I —”

“You’re on the north-east wing of the compound,” Tony calmly answered. “This is the common room, hence the foosball table. You walked here, and judging by your current flannel attire I’d say you were looking for the kitchen. Perhaps a midnight snack. I got you covered.”

The glass of chocolate milk was placed dead center in his vision, so quickly that he was still looking straight ahead when Tony extended it out towards him. Small beads of condensation dripped down the sides of the tall, slender glass and he nearly went cross-eyed looking at it.

Peter finally looked up at Tony, sniffing hard. The man had an eyebrow arched high, patiently yet impatiently waiting for Peter to take the drink from him. He reached out for it with both hands.

“Is it really midnight?” Peter asked, his voice swollen and wet.

Tony looked past him and across the room as he answered, “No, it’s eight pm.”

Peter was mid-sip of chocolate milk when he made a small noise of acknowledgment, nodding slightly and spilling a small amount of drink on his pajama pants. Now that his phone’s screen was a headache waiting to happen, he didn’t have much around to tell him what time it was. He already made a note — a literal, actual note — to buy a wristwatch next time he had some pocket money.

He was actually making a lot of notes lately. He absolutely hated it.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter’s voice was quiet, smothered in his glass. “I don’t...I don’t know what’s going on with me.”

“Only thing you should be sorry for is sitting on the floor,” Tony grunted as he sat down on the couch that Peter rested his back against, patting the empty cushion next to him. “You’re not a caveman. Come, sit.”

Peter slid himself up on the sofa, sitting with more grace and dignity once next to Mr. Stark. He still held the glass in two hands, cupping it tightly and focusing on the liquid inside as opposed to anything else around him.

“This is... _so_ stupid,” he mumbled, barely audible even in the silence they sat in. “I’m being _so_ stupid.”

“No, you’re not,” Tony chimed in, blunt and to the point. “You’re recovering from a bad hit to the head, Pete. It’s okay.”

“No, I don’t know why I’m — _ugh!_ ” The outburst was startling, though not unexpected. Tony remained calm even as Peter began to unravel, his one hand holding the glass while the other began to tug at his hair. Tony fought the urge to swat it away.

“I don’t know why I’m upset. I don’t know why I’m crying. I don’t know why this is bothering me so much!” Peter’s frustration was never spoken in a shout and somehow held more emotion because of it. “I know Doctor. Banner is right, that this is nothing compared to what it should be. May keeps telling me I could be dead, or—or in a real coma, like a never-coming-out coma, or —”

“It doesn’t make what you went through any less,” Tony finally interrupted, such sincerity in his voice that it made his own head hurt. Or maybe that was just from watching Peter tug relentlessly at his hair — sheesh, how was the kid not bald at this point?

Resisting the amplifying urge to slap Peter’s hand away, Tony instead gently reached out for it. His much larger hand clasped around Peter’s wrist and he guided the arm back down, letting it wrap back around the glass of chocolate milk.

Peter looked at him with surprised, confused eyes the entire time. “What are you —”

“You’re being too hard on yourself,” Tony said, patting the hand before letting it go. “Stop beating yourself up so much.”

It was easier said than done, and Tony knew he was being a hypocrite for even trying to preach what he failed to practice. So as Peter stared back at him, it made things all the harder — what with the Bambi-like eyes Peter had, colorful and wide, his gaze holding such a raw vulnerability that seemed all too heavy for a boy of such young age.

“I’m supposed to be better than this,” Peter scoffed, shaking his head. “Iron Man ever go through anything like this?”

Tony barked a laugh. “No, no no _no_ . Iron Man would be _dead_ if he took that fall, Pete. Don’t think any differently of it, you’re officially as hard-headed as they come.”

The news only seemed to further upset Peter. His shoulders visibly slumped and he turned away from Tony and back to his glass, though he never took a sip. His eyes just stared at the swirling liquid inside, unfocused, uninterested.

Tony actually began to wonder if having Steve around was for the best after all. Maybe he and the kid could swap insane _how I_ _survived the impossible_ stories that would have any other average human flabbergasted.

But Rogers wasn’t here right now — and thank whatever higher being existed for that. It meant things were left up to him. To hell with the self-deprecating voice inside his head and to hell with Howard. He was Tony Stark. He could handle this.

“You know, while not on the same level as your latest achievement, I _have_ taken quite a few hits as Iron Man in my day,” Tony went on to say, adjusting himself on the couch. “Suffered many a concussion, too. They aren’t fun.”

“Yeah?” Peter mumbled, eyes still focused straight ahead.

Tony nodded. “Yeah. So...listen, what you’re going through right now...even with that super-duper healing of yours...it can’t be easy.”

A beat passed before Peter chuckled, the sound low and coming directly from his throat. He craned his head slightly towards Tony, the smallest of smirks pulling at the corner of his lip.

“I’m so tired of being dizzy all the time, Mr. Stark,” he admitted, the sadness in his voice revealing the lie behind his forced smile.

Peter was like that, always had been, Tony was sure he always would be. He liked to downplay his problems as to not bother anyone else.

Tony just wished the kid would understand his problems were never a bother, never an inconvenience. The kid needed to learn to lean against the shoulders of his support system when he needed to.

Another thing he’d be a hypocrite for preaching.

“Here, let me teach you a trick. Lay down.” Tony began gathering the pillows nearby, pulling one from behind his back to lay against the side of his hip.

Peter didn’t move. He stared at Tony as the man laid three couch pillows against his hip and the side of his leg, currently creating a barricade between them.

“Come on,” Tony stressed again, patting the pillows, “lay down.”

Maneuvering with his half-full glass still in hand was a challenge, but Peter managed nonetheless. The couch wasn’t large, a mere three-seater, so laying down flat had put Peter’s feet flush against the armrest. His knees bent slightly to keep them from dangling off the edge and the bunch of pillows against Mr. Stark’s hip gave his neck plenty of cushion.

“You good?” Tony’s voice came from above, a slight jostle as the man adjusted himself. “Need a blanket?”

Peter shook his head, just a smidgen. “This is good. This is nice.”

“Alright, now put a foot on the ground. One leg on the couch, one foot on the ground.”

Peter let the glass of milk rest against his chest as he followed Mr. Stark’s instructions, letting his leg dangle off the ground until his sock-clad foot pressed firmly against the marble flooring below.

“Yep, like that,” Tony said, “there you go.”

A hand settled on Peter’s shoulder, open-palmed and relaxed, nearly causing him to jerk up in surprise. When he looked over, he saw it was Mr. Stark’s arm, stretched out and resting against the sleeve of his ‘ _Biologist take cellfies’_ t-shirt.

Peter felt silly when he realized he was staring, practically able to count the number of splits in Mr. Stark’s cuticles surrounding around his fingers. It felt like forever. And it was hard not to remember how Ben would do the same thing at times, when his Uncle would fall asleep after watching _McHale’s Navy_ on their cable television. They’d both be on the couch, Peter against Ben’s leg while May worked on dinner in the kitchen nearby.

“Help any?”

The question tore Peter from his thoughts.

“Uh, yeah,” he said, nodding. “A little bit, yeah.”

No lying this time around, Peter found it did actually help with the never-ending tilt-a-whirl ride that had been going on in his head. The small act of having his foot on the ground as he laid down helped him feel grounded, less roller-coaster and more human.

“Old school trick,” Tony explained. “Works wonders when you’re drunk as a skunk — not that you should be touching alcohol for another twelve years.”

Peter chuckled. “Mr. Stark I’m fifteen, I’ve got six years left til I can —”

“Fourteen years and I’ll add another month for each time you rebut it.”

Peter full on laughed this time, instinctively stuffing his face against the nearest thing to stifle the sound. An overwhelming surge of embarrassment would have very well killed him once he realized he was laughing directly into Mr. Stark’s arm. That is, had he not pulled away, confusion and amusement covering his expression.

“You smell like pennies,” he noted, taking another sniff to verify the fact.

Tony looked down at him, eye quirked high. “Yeah? Metal from the suit. That’s what happens when you take Mark 47 for a delivery run to Queens.”

“Delivery?” Peter echoed, his head rising slightly when Tony huffed.

“Pepper insisted I feed your aunt tonight while you stay here.” The hand resting against his shoulder moved as Tony poked a finger against his collarbone. “You know that’s what you’ve resorted me to, right? Iron _delivery_ man?”

It was a good thing that the room they sat in was kept dark. Peter was afraid that his grin, wide enough to show his back teeth, would have Tony glaring daggers in his direction.

“So like, Ubereats for superheroes and their families?” he said in awe. “That’s a great idea Mr. Stark, you should patent it.”

Tony groaned, rubbing his forehead with his free hand.

“Oh God, speaking of which,” he started, “I tell you yet about how Rogers and I had to sneak you into his place?”

Peter made a humming _‘no’,_ resting the glass of milk against his chest as he closed his eyes. Mr. Stark’s voice went in and out, going on about cheese-steak subs and other things he barely caught, too busy relishing in the freeing sensation of pure, uninterrupted stillness.

“Let me just say I’m pretty sure an underpaid Grubhub employee saw enough that night to make him rich.” A finger jabbed into Peter’s shoulder, jolting him back into the moment. “You fallin’ asleep on me?”

Peter shook his head. Or at least thought he did, blissfully unaware of his own movements.

“No, I’m...’m aw’ke.”

A weight lifted off his chest, the glass of milk being pulled straight out of his already loosely held grip. The condensation left his palm damp, the wetness soaking through his shirt as it went to lay flush across his stomach.

“Uh-huh, sure, the spider-baby says as he drifts off to sleep,” Tony lightheartedly mocked, a slurping noise that Peter barely heard coming straight after. “I’m drinking the rest of your milk if you fall asleep.”

The threat fell on sleeping ears.

Time seemed to suspend itself after that, the quietness between them different, less troublesome than what Tony had been dealing with for weeks now. It was peaceful, low-key. He actually found himself relaxing in the moment, his own eyes closed, mind drifting to nothing of any specific nature. No web-shooter blueprints, no electrical output for suit resistance.

And especially not the sound of footsteps that softly walked up the stairs.

Steve eyed the two from the top of the staircase, hidden beneath the metal railings that separated him from the rec room. He stopped exactly three steps short of the top, right when he saw the man he had been hunting down sitting casually on the sofa.

A smile crept up on his face when he realized who was laying nearby.

He hadn’t planned to linger, but it was hard not to stay when he noticed both lads were fast asleep. Or at least Peter was, the light snoring made that abundantly clear. Though it was dark, Steve could see Tony had his eyes closed. If either of them had noticed him, they didn’t dare say a word.

He hadn’t planned to linger, but it was one hell of a sight to see.

Steve held onto the staircase railing, leaning slightly against it as he looked ahead. It had been a hard road of recovery these past few months, hard on them all. An avalanche of change had swept them up, carried them away with a never-ending bundle of problems. The dismantling of the Accords, the rogue’s pardoning and moving back in. Becoming a team again.

Rhodey needing a machine to walk. Bucky living countries away.

An absolute avalanche of change.

But Peter?

Steve spared one last look at the two before turning back around, making sure his footsteps were quiet as he walked down the staircase and to the bottom level floor below. Peter seemed to be a welcoming change. Not one that they had planned, of course. But that seemed to be for the best.

“FRIDAY?” Steve asked once having reached the bottom of the staircase. “Tell the team I’ve relocated the meeting from rec room six to conference room number nine.”

He had turned a corner when the AI spoke through the ceilings, slightly narrowed in sound, more directed towards him as opposed to the whole hallway.

“ **Of course, Captain Rogers. Shall I try to reach Mr. Stark again?”**

When he went looking for Tony, FRIDAY had only told Steve his location, stating he was preoccupied and she had been unable to gain a response. Leaving the area now, Steve understood why.

“That’s okay,” he looked to the ceiling as he spoke, shaking his head. Steve couldn’t resist the smile as he said, “Tony’s...well, he’s got something better to do.”

It was a bit odd remembering that nearly a year ago, both he and Tony planned to recruit Spider-man together — that was, Peter Parker, the kid he had only recently come to know. Steve had been glad that at least _one_ of them was watching over the young vigilante, especially after this most recent incident. But he also couldn’t help feeling a sense of bitterness that it had been Tony who got there first.

He had hoped…

Steve shook his head dismissively, turning another corner as he walked down the halls. Whether Tony would admit it or not, it seemed he’d come to find something in Peter, something he needed much more than any one of them.

Knowing that, seeing it first hand — Steve was actually happy their original plan had fallen through. Things worked out better in the end.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It turned out four and a half weeks was the exact amount of time May needed before she started cracking jokes.

“You going on patrol tonight?”

Peter looked up at her, his aunt busy washing their dinner dishes while he stuffed his suit into his backpack. He stood from his knees and zipped the bag closed, nodding eagerly.

“Yeah, I think...” Peter took a deep breath in, swinging his backpack over his shoulder. “I think I’m finally ready. Plus, Mr. Stark apparently did a _ton_ of upgrades to the suit so I’m excited to see what’s new.”

May smiled at him, setting a clean dish on the drying rack before grabbing another one to scrub.

“Well, just make sure you check the weather report first,” she cautioned, so casually that Peter almost didn’t catch onto the joke. That was until a few seconds went by, her grin growing comically larger as he stood in the middle of their living room, soaking it in.

“You know,” Peter started, faux-serious expression glaring daggers her way, “it’s not funny when you do it.”

“No, you’re right,” May was just as serious with her response, though her smile told a different story. “It’s _hilarious_.”

Four weeks had been enough time to return home, fully recovered and sans the construction outside their apartment, all thanks to Mr. Stark. Taking the teasing in stride, Peter reminded himself that he’d happily take lighthearted joking May over crying, upset May any day of the week.

“I’m surprised you’re not telling me to stay away from Brooklyn,” he said, smirking. “You know, the scene of the accident and all?”

May paused, dinner plate dripping with soap in the kitchen sink as she spared him a confused glance. “Why would I? After all, lightning never strikes twice in the same place.”

Peter rolled his eyes, throwing their front door open and calling back into the kitchen, “I’m not bringing you back a churro tonight!”

“Oh, whatever will I do!” May laughed, hard, loud enough to hear across the apartment. He closed the door on her response, hopping down the stairs and heading into the streets of Queens.

He had a few pit-stops before patrol, including a few snacks from Delmars in case he stayed out late and he got hungry. The sun had just started setting by the time he got to his favorite alleyway, managing to get into his suit without drawing anyone’s attention.  
As always, once he hit the spider emblem that shrank the material tightly around him, a voice came ringing to life from within his mask.

“ **Hello, Peter,”** Karen greeted. **“It’s good to see you’re back. Mr. Stark has uploaded my system with all the details regarding your most recent injury, as well as a full precautionary plan for if any unexpected symptoms might occur while you’re out.”**

“Hey, Karen! Awesome, thanks!” Peter stretched his leg behind his back, gripping his foot and pulling on it tightly. “And I’ll be good tonight, no problems with the old noggin lately. Are there any new upgrades to the suit I should know about?”

Peter was unapologetically excited to hear about what new features had been added since a month ago. For the most part, he had been kept in the dark, only told a few things like _“Thor will be able to hit those webshooters with lightning and you’ll be fine”_ and _“It’s nothing big, just things that should have been in there all along.”_ Mr. Stark didn’t want to give him details, but yet again, Mr. Stark wasn’t really comfortable talking about what happened anyway. They were both happy to have the whole thing put behind them.

“ **I am noticing a few new codes that have been installed,”** Karen answered, her voice calm and gentle as ever. **“The suit now has what is called The Baby Swaddle Protocol.”**

Peter stopped moving mid-stretch, freezing mid-tug on his leg. He didn’t want to ask if he had heard that right because, well, he was pretty sure he _had_ heard it right. His eyes rolled so hard he found himself staring at the sky, orange and pink from the sunset reflecting into the lenses of his mask.

“You fall and nearly crack your head open _one_ time! I swear...” Peter sighed, shaking his head. He shot a strand of webbing up to the building’s rooftop, pulling himself high into the air and soaring past the clothesline of laundry above. “Whacha got for me tonight, Karen?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for joining me on this little ride, everyone. I hope you enjoyed it 😺

**Author's Note:**

> You can find and reach out to me on Tumblr if you'd like - [KitCat's Tumblr](https://kitcat992.tumblr.com/)\- I love connecting with fans from all 'doms!


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